


LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 

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A Proud 


Dishonor 


ItRICWl 


I0VELS 


By GENIE HOLTZMEYER. 


». 15 . PRICE, 25 CENTS. 

IBLISHED MONTHLY. 


Yearly Subscription, $3 00 . December, 1889 . 

Entered at the New York Post-Office as second-class matter. 


(MRS. SYDNEY ROSENFELD.) 




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Published Monthly. Yearly Subscription $3.00. Single Copy 25 cents. 


Every one desiring really good novels, written by popular 
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The Manhattan Series, though so cheap, is not to be classed with modern 
penurious publications, often too dear at any price. — National Reptibiican, 
Washington , D. C. 

The Following are Uniform with this Volume: 

A PROUD DISHONOR. By Genie Holtzmeyer (Mrs. Sydney Rosenfeld). 
“A pleasing love story, written in a smooth vein and well told.” 

— Home Journal, New York. 

WON ON THE HOMESTRETCH. By Mrs. M. C. Williams. 

“ The story is well told and out of the common.” — Buffalo Courier. 

A MODERN MIRACLE. By James Franklin Fitts. 

“ A strong, well told and original novel.” — Newark News. 

ROSLYN’S TRUST. By Lucy C. Lillie. 

” It will prove an agreeable companion for a summer day.” — Troy Budget. 
ADAM KENT’S CHOICE. By Humphrey Elliott. 

“ This novel ought to be widely read.” — Charleston News. 

A TRUE ARISTOCRAT. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

“ As fascinating a novel as has been written in many a day.” — Baltimore News. 
KILDHURM’S OAK. By Julian Hawthorne. 

“ One of the best stories recently devised by Mr. Hawthorne.” — Boston Beacon. 
A MOMENT OF MADNESS. By Charles J. Bellamy. 

“ It is a delightful piece of fiction.” — Columbus Dispatch. 

A STRANGE PILGRIMAGE. By Mrs. J. H. Walworth. 

" This novel is of intense interest and excels her last one .” — Chicago Herald. 
THE FACE OF ROSENFEL. By Charles Howard Montague. 

” It is intensely readable and well written.” — Springfield News. 

TRUE TO HERSELF. By Mrs. J. H. Walworth. 

“ Thoroughly readable and very entertaining.” — San Francisco Call. 
TRIXY; or, The Shadow of a Crime. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

“ Will become popular with readers of fiction.” — Boston Herald. 

THE DAUGHTER OF THE REGIMENT. By Mary A. Denison. 

“ The story is a most readable one.” — Albany Express. 

MARRIED IN MASK. By Mansfield Tracy Walworth. 

11 A most exciting and interesting tale.” — New York Sun. 

THE MIDNIGHT MARRIAGE. By Amanda M. Douglas. 

“ The reader will be loath to lay it down until finished.” — Boston Transcript. 

f -yrygy^The above stories are also printed on fine paper , and bound 
in handsome cloth binding , library style. Price $1.00 per 
copy. They may be had of all boohsellers or the publisher. 

A. L. BURT, 56 Beekman St. New York. 


A Proud Dishonor 


A NOVEL. 


By GENIE HOLTZ MEYER, 


(MRS. SYDNEY ROSENFELD.) 

Author of 


u 


ut \3 1889 &l 

fist % 

“Heavily Handicapped,” “ Twixt Heaven and Earth,” etc., etc. 


“ Life never seems so clear and easy as when the heart is beating faster at 
the sight of some generous self-risking deed. We feel no doubt then, what is 
the highest prize the soul can win .” — George Eliot. 



NEW YORK: 

A, L. BURT, PUBLISHER. 



Copyright 1889, by A. L. Burt 


A Proud Dishonor. 


CHAPTER I. 

ABOUT MYSELF AND MY FAMILY. 

T PUT MY MUSIC down in the hall, and go into 
J- the sitting-room to say good-by to mother. 

The moment I open the door I see something is 
wrong. Mother has arisen from her work-table by 
the window, and, nervously twisting her watch- 
chain through her fingers, is listening to the low, 
business-like tones of a man who stands before her. 

His back is toward me, but I instinctively recog- 
nize it as a back that wants money. The straight, 
firm attitude, the unflinching shoulders, say, as 
plainly as if they were speaking, “ Our man has 
come for money, and our man won’t go without it.” 
“ Bills,” is my inward comment, and I advance to 
the rescue. 

“ I am very sorry to press you, Madam,” he is 
saying, with that polite suavity which is worse than 
a slap in the face, “ but my positive orders were to 
bring back a substantial check or respectfully in- 
form you that further steps will be taken imme- 
diately.” 


6 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


“ What is it, Mother?” I ask, coming forward. 

“ From Smith’s, dear,” she says, and her voice 
sounds so weary. 

“ Yes, Miss,” the man says, turning to me. “ You 
see it is a large amount, and has been standing some 
time ; and as there have been no orders, lately, Mr. 
Smith thinks it best to close the account.” 

Mother looks frightened. She is not strong 
enough to bear these petty worries, so I interpose. 

“ I suppose, in reality, Mr. Smith wishes to know 
when the account will be settled, and why there 
have been no orders lately ?” 

The man shuffles his feet and does not feel so sure 
of fingering his commission as before I entered. 

“Well, Miss, if I could take back a satisfactory 
answer it might make a difference.” 

u Just so ; perhaps you would be so kind as to tell 
him that our family has been smaller lately and our 
wants fewer, and that we would like to pay weekly, 
for the future, settling the standing bill little by lit- 
tle, as we can.” 

Mother looks at me in surprise, but the man ap- 
pears satisfied, though sulky. 

“ I am sure Mr. Smith could not desire a better 
arrangement. When shall I tell him the first in- 
stallment will be paid ?” 

I am nonplussed, but mother comes bravely to 
the fore. 

“My dividend will be due on the 4th of next 
month. Tell Mr. Smith he shall have a check on 
the 6th.” 

“ I will do so, Ma’am and with a clumsy bow 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


7 


the man retires with the same promptitude as his 
visions of what he would do with his commission 
have done. 

As the hall door bangs after him, mother turns to 
me. 

“ Winnie, darling, how are we going to pay 
weekly ?” 

“ Lottie and I have been talking things over, 
dearie, and we find we can manage nicely to pay 
for everything as we get it, and save running up 
those horrid bills that trouble you so; and then, 
Mother, by and by we will get on better, and not 
owe anyone a cent, and have a balance at our bank- 
ers, and you shall go into the country and have a 
lovely time with the ” 

“ The butcher, Miss ” 

“ All right, Mary, I’ll come. Never mind, Mother;” 
I say, laughing at the interpolation, “ I could even 
contemplate .with calmness your having a lovely 
time with the butcher if we did not owe him any- 
thing.” 

Mother laughs the bright laugh that she keeps 
through all her worries, and I go down-stairs to settle 
with the butcher; and as the baker is also there, I send 
them both away with the assurance of weekly pay- 
ments and a prospective slice of the dividend. 

Then I return to mother. 

“ I am afraid I must be off now, or I shall lose my 
lesson,” I sav, “ but I don’t want to leave you until 
Lottie comes home ;” and I look out over the flower- 
filled window-sill, which it is our pride to keep so 
bright, because mother likes it so, and since she be- 


8 A PROUD DISHONOR. 

came an invalid it is all she can see of God’s beauti- 
ful earth. 

I keep one eye up the street for Lottie and the 
other on the clock, for I have quite a walk across to 
the Elevated road and don’t want to be late for my 
lesson. 

“ I have plenty of time ; the trains run every seven 
minutes. Ah, here is Lottie. Good-by, darling 
and I kiss my pretty mother and start off, admitting 
Lottie as I go out. 

All the way down the street, and some time after 
I am in the car, I can see in fancy my dear mother 
as she sits in the sun-lighted room, with the yellow 
blinds half-drawn, throwing a golden gleam over 
everything, the windows wide open, and the sweet 
spring air bringing in soft scents from the mignon- 
ette, fuchsias and geraniums that crowd the sill. 

It is a pretty room, our sitting-room, for mother 
can’t move about ; so it has also to be our living- 
room. It is perhaps overcrowded with knickknacks 
and work-baskets, but it is essentially a woman’s 
room and a home-room. 

By the big square window are mother’s table, chair 
and footstool ; and here she is always to be found, 
her fingers busy with some exquisite piece of fancy 
work, her little white hands looking so pretty it is 
hard to keep from kissing them. She is still a very 
handsome woman, though pain and care have 
touched her with heavy hands. As she sits in her 
black dress, her dainty cap, falling lace collar, and 
the soft shawl round her shoulders, she is very fair 
to see. She has such a sweet, kind face, so full of 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


9 


refinement, with its clear-cut features, delicate com- 
plexion, gentle hazel eyes, and dark, smoothty- 
braided hair. 

I think of mother, and from her my thoughts 
wander to ourselves ; and as the car jolts along it 
occurs to me that I have been distributing the divi- 
dend in a most lavish manner, and that unless it is 
of a more elastic nature than usual it cannot possi- 
bly do all it purports to do. I turn hot and cold at 
the thought, and review our position from the earli- 
est time. 

We are the widow and daughters of one of the 
most intensely Knickerbocker Knickerbockers of all 
Manhattan Island. It may be a very fine thing to 
be born into the most exclusive society of New York, 
but experience teaches me that it is much pleasanter 
to be born of a thriving business parent who is not 
unlikely to leave something behind him for his 
family. 

My father, being too much of a gentleman to look 
after his own affairs, left them in the hands of a 
person who was eccentric enough to prefer a tar- 
nished honor, a Canadian climate, and my father’s 
wealth, to his distinguished acquaintance, poverty, 
and the sultry summers of New York. My father 
was too overcome with astonishment at this exhibi- 
tion of bad taste to care to live longer, and accord- 
ingly lay down the burden of his own life and made 
way for his invalid wife and youthful daughters to 
take up theirs. There are but two of us, and girls, 
of course ; ’twould not have been our luck to have had 
a boy among us to help keep the home together and 


10 


A PROUD DISHONOR . 


share the family burden, which is by no means a 
light one for girlish shoulders to bear. The total 
wreck of our fortunes occurred when I was eleven, 
Lottie fourteen. We were cast high and dry on a 
barren shore, penniless. 

Since then we have been struggling on, somehow, 
for ten years, and to-day finds us in the same state 
of insolvent hopefulness that this day five years ago 
did. We are living in Harlem, doing our best to 
make both ends meet by the aid of a sentimental in- 
cumbrance on our first floor, or, as the advertise- 
ments put it, “ receiving two or three eligible people 
into our refined family circle.” 

Lottie, ever practical and earnest, graduated as 
early as possible and has been a regular teacher for 
three years, now. I, alas ! am a dunce. After the 
happy times at Miss Bovee’s on Fifth Avenue I hated 
the High School, where I had to sit among all the 
odd and-end girls of the neighborhood. So mother 
kept me at home with her and educated me her- 
self. 

I am at once the pet and black sheep. At the 
present time I am studying for a singer, and hope 
ultimately, with concert engagements and pupils, to 
realize some of the wealth of which I am always 
dreaming. 

I wonder sometimes how we have managed to 
bear all the troubles that have come to our share, 
and when I think of what our lives have been I say 
to myself, “ Nothing shall ever induce me to marry.” 
I suppose every woman has the natural longing for 
baby voices lisping “ Mamma,” for baby arms clasped 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


11 


about her neck, and fresh, innocent cheeks pressed 
to hers; but with me the practical soon overcomes 
the romantic, and I thank God heartily that I have 
no hungry mouths clamoring for the food it is so 
hard to get, no little restless bodies to clothe out of 
nothing, and in after years no responsibility of 
launching girls on the world. 

Girls are so helpless, they can do so little for them- 
selves; and if they are gifted with that sound com- 
mon sense which the scoffers term strong-minded- 
ness they are supposed to lose their greatest charm 
(womanliness), and their more fortunate sisters born 
with the silver spoon in their mouths make merry 
over this absence of helplessness. 

Strong-mindedness is nothing but the form into 
which the buffets of the world have molded the 
plastic clay of a woman’s nature. 

In the abstract I hate boys, but as a wife I would 
pray unceasingly for men-children; there is so much 
more room for them in this world. 

How one runs on when one is astride a pet hobby ! 
1 was forgetting everything in the desire to spread 
before the world my not very unique ideas. 

I am going to Fifth Avenue and Ninth Street to 
take my lesson, and I have been so busy with my 
thoughts that before I have begun to realize that I 
am on my way, here I am at Jefferson Market. I 
hurry over to Ninth Street, and in a few moments 
am at the Signor’s door. 

“ Good-morning, young lady,” says the Signor 
gayly, as I enter. “ You are just in ze good time. 
Mr. Mertens, Miss Ten Eyck.” 


12 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


I bow to a little, fair man, who seems to rise sud- 
denly out of the earth, but who in reality was only 
hidden by the piano, which it is the Signor’s caprice 
to run all over the room, as the whim seizes him. 

“ Mr. Mertens is my neighbor,” the little old Sig- 
nor says, settling his skull-cap more closely to his 
head; “he is looking for some one to launch ; Miss 
Ten Eyck is my pupil ; she looks for some one to 
launch her ; I introduce ; that is all.” 

I stand nervously waiting developments ; the Sig- 
nor puts on his glasses and eyes me sarcastically. 

“ What you think of her ?” he asks Mr. Mer- 
tens. 

The little gentleman rises to the occasion gal- 
lantly. 

“ If Miss Ten Eyck’s voice is as charming as her- 
self you have done me a great service,” he says. 

“She all right,” says the Signor. “She all 
right, or I not make the introduction. She need a 
little lead here,” patting the top of his head, “ but 
she all right. She want to soar too high, but she 
soon get cured.” 

“ Opera — eh ?” says Mr. Mertens. 

“ Si,” says the Signor. “ She think Miss Ten Eyck 
one day prima donna Grand Italian Opera; set 
Europe afire ; but she have not studied enough. She 
have much that Nature gave her. See the breadth 
of chest ! What lungs ! What physique ! Ah ! 
She have physique. Mees will move ze piano to ze 
window ?” 

I obey without any hesitation— it is such a fre- 
quent request that I have learned to think nothing 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


33 


of it— and push the piano toward the window. The 
Signor seats himself quickly at it. 

“ Sing ze scale,” he says. 

I obey. 

“Zere!” he says proudly, as I give no sign of 
breathlessness. “ Physique! Wonderful! Yergood!” 

“Now let me hear her sing,” says Mr. Mertens. 

“ No !” the Signor objects, “ zat is not fair ; she 
take her lesson now, but I give my concert next 
week. Ze little girl zat sing ze first song have sore 
troat. Zis little girl can sing instead. You come 
hear her.” 

Mr. Mertens withdraws, and I turn and grasp the 
Signor’s hand gratefully. 

“ How can I thank you ? How good of you,” I 
say. 

“ Bah !” he says furiously, “ you waste ze moments 
in such folly. If you was not useful to me I would 
not use you.” 

“ But,” I say. 

“Push zat piano back,” he cries. “ You dare say 
one ozer word and I teach you no more. Sing !” 

As usual I obey without a word ; but whether it 
is my excitement that makes me sing badly, or 
whether the Signor is a little captious, I don’t know, 
but never in my life have I had such a ferocious 
scolding as I get at this lesson. 

I am awfully impatient until I can get home, and 
I fancy the old Signor guesses as much, for he keeps 
me long after my time, peering at me maliciously 
through his bushy eyebrows as he catches me look- 
ing at the clock. 


14 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


At last I am free. At last I speed home, breath- 
less, triumphant and happy. I tell them — mother 
and Lottie— that I am going to sing at my first con- 
cert next week ; and soon we have become absorbed 
in the serious question of what I shall wear. 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


15 


CHAPTER II. 

MY FIRST APPEARANCE. 

T BETAKE MYSELF to the den to practice my 
J- scales for one of the three twenty minutes 
which are my daily allotted task. 

Singers studying in a city labor under great dis- 
advantages, which balance pretty evenly with the 
benefits attained by living within easy reach of the 
best masters, the best music, and the best concerts. 
To begin with, the eye of the public is always on 
them, the ear of the public ever in wait for some 
harsh tone or false note — and this, too, the gallery 
public, who are never too delicate to bring the faults 
of students forcibly to their notice. The discrimina- 
ting audiences I allude to are the street boys and 
corner loafers. 

Ours is a corner house, and against the lamp-post 
in front of it half the idle backs in the neighborhood 
are wont to lean. Toward evening this becomes 
overcrowded, and the stoop is requisitioned. In re- 
turn for our support, our friends give such sugges- 
tions as may seem good to them. 

Scales and exercises they object to in toto , sternly 
refusing to allow them in the evening, or, if I per- 
sist, giving me such vigorous assistance that I am 
bound to stop, When his work is over at night, and 


16 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


he is free to do us the honor of swarming on our 
lamp-post, the “ Agricultural Irishman ” thinks that 
if folks will annoy him by singing they shall at least 
sing something amusing. Anything, therefore, that 
does not meet with the approval of the aforesaid A. 
I. is soon smothered. 

My trials are, however, not alone confined to the 
evening. I have an implacable enemy in a me&- 
senger boy who seems never to be out of our street. 
Do I start an ascending scale, he immediately begins 
a descending one. N or is he too particular as to 
key — his genius is too great to be prisoned by rules 
of harmony. He is an infant Wagner, an uncon- 
scious disciple of the new school, and whenever he 
appears on the scene I bow before his superior 
judgment and close my piano. 

I am not alone in my misery ; we are living ap- 
parently in an artistic neighborhood. In the apart- 
ment-houses round the corner dwell a shrill soprano 
and a deep bass, both studying professionally ; im- 
mediately opposite is a pianist, a young lady ama- 
teur who aspires to be something out of the com- 
mon, but who never plays studies of any description, 
merely hammering away at a difficult piece until 
she knows it. Add to these another soprano and 
a violinist who board next door and the list is com- 
plete, unless mention should be made of a young 
man who tortures us nightly with an ocarina which 
he is trying to learn after office hours. 

To-day I close my window and practice with care, 
for to-night I am to sing at the Signor’s concert, and 
I am anxious to do well. 


A PllOUD DISHONOR. 


17 


There has been no end of trouble to get me a 
dress. It is, of course, imperative that I appear 
with some approach to style, but the wherewithal 
to provide a stylish dress is not forthcoming. After 
many consultations, however, woman’s ingenuity 
overcomes all difficulties and a satisfactory result 
is attained. 

Later on I sweep into the sitting-room feeling 
quite bridal in my pure white gown, handsomely 
trimmed with mother’s Mechlin lace. Lottie follows 
me as the admiring crowd, and mother surveys the 
little procession with much pride. My neck and 
arms are bare of ornament, and I look very nice, I 
fancy ; but mother, without saying a word, goes to 
the case that contains the few lingering remains of 
her handsome jewelry and brings me some bracelets 
and a string of pearls for my neck, then my cloak 
is folded round me, and away we go, Lottie as chap- 
erone. 

I should dearly like a coupe, my cab rides are so 
few and far between ; but practical Lottie reminds 
me of the cost of the white dress and I collapse into 
the car, feeling selfish for suggesting such a thing. 
¥e go over in the Madison Avenue cars, to save 
the drabbling my dress is likely to get on the stairs 
of the Elevated station, and it seems an age before 
we reach Eighteenth Street and Chickering Hall. 
My song is early in the programme, and I am so 
nervous lest I shall be late that I can hardly wait to 
enter the hall. 

We are only just in time ; and when, after hastily 
throwing off my wraps, I ascend the platform, the 


18 


A PROUD DISHONOR . 


memory of the countless great artists I have sat 
and listened to in this very hall strikes me with a 
crushing blow at my own impudence in daring to 
sing where they have sung, and I would give worlds 
to run back into the artists’ room and hide my 
head? What if I fail? 

The Signor is behind me, so I dare not go back, 
and tremblingly I walk down and face my audience. 

I am to sing that sweet old song, “ Home They 
Brought Her Warrior Dead.” I am going to sing 
without notes, as it always increases my nervous- 
ness to see the music shivering in my trembling and 
ice-cold hands. 

I make a shy bow, and passing my handkerchief 
across my lips try to remember the first words of 
my song. They have gone from me utterly ! 

The accompanist — Heaven be praised ! — is indulg- 
ing in a few preliminary flourishes ; but even as my 
thanksgiving arises he strikes into the symphony, 
which is only of some few bars’ duration, and the 
words are still miles from me. 

1 gaze hopelessly, helplessly at my audience. 
They are waiting patiently now ; in one more min- 
ute they will be hissing me. As my eyes wander 
among them I catch sight of a pair of grave eyes 
fixed on my face. They are those of a man in the 
orchestra right before me. He sits with folded 
arms, gazing at me from under his brows, and 
though his eyes are grave, there is a look of amuse- 
ment lurking round his mouth which tells me he has 
read my inward struggles and anticipates a failure, 
as I do. He seems bored, throws his head back in. 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


10 


a half-contemptuous way, fidgets, looks at the pro- 
gramme to see who sings after me, then glances 
round to see if there is any chance of escape, and 
finding himself hemmed in resigns himself to his 
fate. With yet another look at me, which, inter- 
preted, means that he wishes me at Jericho, he folds 
his arms, and dropping his head, wonders how to 
kill time till I am hissed off. 

The spirit of contrariness rises up within me. This 
man thinks I shall fail, and the horrid, cowardly 
creature is anticipating enjoyment out of my dis- 
tress. I brace myself up, the words come crowding 
back to my mind, I sing with all the power and 
passion at my command, and I realize that I am do- 
ing well. At last I come to the words 

Yet she neither moved nor wept. 

There is a stir through the audience as I sing 
them ; they even thrill me strangely ; and now they 
rouse the enemy. Slowty he raises his head; his 
eyes meet mine and rest upon me. I have caught 
his attention; now I will keep it. So I sing on, 
feeling the pathos of every word I utter; and, 
watching him, I see he feels it, too. His eyes never 
leave my face, but rest there until the last note dies 
away. Then, as I bow, I meet them again, and in 
them read a mute expression of pleasure, and I leave 
the platform amid deafening applause. 

How proud and happy I feel as I return and bow ; 
how overjoyed when an encore is insisted on. My 
very soul stirs at the tempest that greets me when 
I appear in answer to the call, and at the deathlike 


20 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


stillness that reigns the moment the first chords are 
struck. 

I sing the same song again. The Signor in advis- 
ing me for a crisis like the present had said, in his 
sarcastic way : 

“ While you are a youngster, alwa}^s give the 
same song for an encore. Don’t let the public think 
you take the credit to yourself, but give it to the 
composer ; they will regard it as becoming modesty, 
and like you all the better for it.” 

I find he is right. The audience evidently did 
want the sweet old ballad again, and show their 
approval of it and me in a most flattering manner. 

I return to the artists’ room in a whirl of delight, 
and in and out among the other visions come flash- 
ing a pair of quiet eyes. I am only too eager for 
my turn to come again, and when I return to the 
platform look instantly for my mascot. lie is still 
there, and watches me so intently that a sudden fear 
seizes me lest he has seen me staring at him. This 
time my song does not give so much pleasure ; I am 
only recalled, not encored, but I leave the platform 
as happy as a bird. 

I know how foolish it is, but when Lottie and I 
are jogging away homeward, above and beyond the 
pleasure I feel at my success is the still more pleas- 
urable remembrance of a quiet face and an approv- 
ing smile. 

Over the hot cocoa that has been brewed for us 
on our return we tell mother the whole story of the 
evening’s triumph, and she is so proud and happy, 
already seeing me the rival of Kellogg. 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


21 


At last we go to bed. Mother is too tired to keep 
up any longer, and having given her her sleeping 
draught, I light the night-light and creep into my 
own little bed in the corner. 

I can’t sleep. In every nook where the shadows 
are darkest I see again the concert-room, the sea of 
upturned faces, and that one face that haunts me so 
strangely. I see again the outlines of a perfectly- 
shaped head, covered with closely-cropped hair that 
falls into little brown waves at the temples; a 
bronzed face that belongs to a man accustomed to 
an open-air life, keen gray eyes, clearly -cut profile, 
and the line of a straight, firm mouth shaded by a 
golden-brown mustache. This man has strangely 
fascinated me. I fall to wondering who he is, what 
his name is, and keep on forming conjectures about 
him, until with a start I pull myself up. What has 
he to do with me or I with him ? — a strange man 
who heard me sing and was evidently bored. Per- 
haps, after all, he did not notice me ; but now I re- 
member that earnest, intent gaze, and I know only 
too w r ell that he did notice me a great deal. Per- 
haps he only looked at me in surprise at the rude 
way in which I was staring at him. 

The thought makes me angry. After all, what is 
this man to me or I to him, that I should let him 
worry me and deprive me of my rest ? Nothing, ab- 
solutely nothing. In ,all probability I shall never 
see him again. 

This idea unfortunately brings no consolation with 
it. I positively have the audacity to think what a 
dull affair the next concert will be when I go on the 


22 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


platform and don’t find him among the audience. 
This is altogether too much ; and angrily scolding 
myself, I drop off to sleep, vowing to sing peniten- 
tial scales every time I find my mind dwelling on 
this tiresome man. 

Life goes on in the same old way after the con- 
cert, and for the next few days there is nothing to 
disturb its even tenor. Then comes a break, and a 
glorious one. I get a letter from Mr. Mertens, w r ho, 
having heard me at the concert, wants to engage me 
for three of a series he is going to give. Honor and 
cab-fares are all that will fall to my share ; but Mr. 
Mertens is a well-known man, and the hint he gives 
about getting me other engagements through these 
concerts is not to be despised, so I accept with delight. 

Mr. Mertens is as good as his word, in a few days 
I get two more engagements — paying ones, these — 
and I begin to think I am going to make fame and 
fortune this very season. 

The first concert comes on, and though I scold 
myself for my folly, I cannot help wondering if the 
stranger will be there. 

I dress myself with the greatest care, and when I 
ascend the platform I know I am looking my best. 
Involuntarily I glance round to see if my mascot is 
on hand. He is not there. I feel disappointed for 
a moment; then right before me I see an empty 
seat. I cannot help wishing he w T ere filling it ; but 
before the thought is half-formed, down the aisle he 
saunters, and in another moment has taken the va- 
cant seat, and with arms folded is again subjecting 
me to that peculiar gaze. 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


23 


When my duties are done, and Lottie and I start 
out on our homeward way, who should be waiting 
outside but the mysterious stranger. My heart 
stands still. I feel that he is there just to see me 
pass, but I say nothing to Lottie, and go home with 
my head in a whirl. 

I look forward to my next appearance with fever- 
ish anxiety. I cannot help confessing to myself that 
I am fascinated by this man, whom I have seen but 
twice. I fully expect to see him, nor am I disap- 
pointed. He is there, and this time there is a faint 
sign of welcome in his eyes as they meet mine. I 
feel honestly glad to see. him, for I have quite come 
to the belief that his presence brings me luck. 

I have two solos and a part in a trio at this con- 
cert, and feel as though I were going to distinguish 
myself, for I never felt happier in my life ; but what 
is my horror, on going out to sing in the trio, which 
closely follows my song, to find that “ he ” has gone. 
He evidently does not come to hear me, or he would 
not go out just as I am going to sing. I return to 
the artists’ room feeling cross and humiliated, and 
see Lottie holding in her hands a magnificent bou- 
quet of white flowers, which she is somewhat angrily 
contemplating. 

“ An attendant brought this for you,” she says. 

“ For me ?” I say, taking it eagerly. I know it is 
from him, and I bury my face in the fragrant blos- 
soms to hide the blush of pleasure that will rise. 
I notice a card attached to the ribbons, and read 
“ Miss Ten Eyck,” written in a clear, manly hand, 
and in the corner the initials “ J. M.” 


24 


A PROUD DISHONOR . 


“ J. M., Jim,” says Lottie, reading it over my 
shoulder. “Well, for my part, I would like to re- 
turn this to ‘ J. M.’ with my own comments on his 
impudence.” 

“Pardon,” says Madam Y , taking the bou- 

quet from me and inhaling its delicious fragrance. 
“Your sister should be much complimented at such 
a distinction. It is an honor to an artist to be so 
appreciated.” 

“ I should be far more inclined to call it an imper- 
tinence,” Lottie says, doggedty. 

“ No. Had the gentleman also sent his name, it 
would then have been impertinence ; but this is in- 
tended as a compliment. Your sister should carry 
the flowers for her last song.” 

Carry them for my last song ! I should as soon 
fly. I dare not, though I should like him to know 
how much I appreciate them. Fate is, however, 
against me. As I am stepping out on the platform 
Madam Y thrusts them into my hand. 

I have hardly advanced a step before I regret her 
thoughtless kindness, for I cannot help feeling em- 
barrassed, and I have a difficult task before me for 
which I need all my self-control. Mr. Mertens has 
asked me to introduce a new song written by a 
friend of his, and much flattered by the request I 
have taken it to the Signor, who, after glancing it 
over amid many expressive twirls of his eyebrows, 
remarks : 

“ He ask you to sing zat ? Well, I like his nerves. 
It is rats !” 

However, he coached me in it, and I am very glad 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


25 


to have the opportunity of singing it, if only for 
its bringing me under the special notice of Mr. 
Mertens and his friends. 

It is an arch little ditty, and needs a cool head to 
enable me to give it its due expression. I devoutly 
wish the flowers back at the florists. 


Fly, Jenny, 

Spry, Jenny, 

To the haymakers nigh, Jenny. 
Haste thee now, lass. Hurry ! Faster ! 
Here’s a luncheon, my dear. 

With a bone and some beer, 

For little dog Joe— and his master. 


Fie, Jenny, 

Sly, Jenny; 

Drop that bright eye, Jenny ! 
Why make his poor heart beat taster? 
He quakes now with tear, 

And he dare not draw near, 

Poor little dog Joe— and his master. 


Why, Jenny, 

Shy, Jenny, 

Sinks that bright eye, Jenny? 
Why beats thy heart so much faster? 
There’s not a soul here 
To alarm you, my dear; 

None but little dog Joe— and his master. 


Try, Jenny. 

My! Jenny. 

Why do you sigh, Jenny? 

Bolder his words come, and faster. 

Why, what’s that I hear? 

’Twas a kiss, I much fear. 

Was’t for little dog Joe— or his master? 

y 

So runs the song. The lilt of it carries me away 
with it, and I suppose I sing it well, for the hearty 
laughter that greets me and the splendid encore that 
follows are convincing evidence. My bouquet has 


26 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


brought me luck. I have made a hit, and with a 
fleeting glance at “ J. M.” I hurry home to tell 
mother of my success.- She is very much pleased 
with the account of the whole evening, especially 
with the flowers, for she does not regard them with 
the same disgust Lottie does. We put them in 
water, and admire the beautiful arrangement of 
ferns and flowers ; and then I laugh a little feebly 
over the mysterious sender, “ J. M.” For the next 
few days Lottie teases me terribly. At each ring 
of the bell she says : 

“ More flowers from ‘ J. M. or perhaps he has 
arrived in person to see if the bouquet does not 
want renewing.” 

One morning I go down town for some music and 
to call on Mr. Mertens to see him about some slight 
alteration I want to make in the arrangement of my 
songs for the next concert. Mr. Mertens has rooms 
in one of those nice, old-fashioned houses on Wash- 
ington Square — a large, comfortable place — just the 
style of home I would like to settle down in tvhen I 
have got beyond the love-and-suburban-villa period 
and come to the solid enjoyments of life. 

I am ushered at once into the august presence, 
and find the great man very affable ; but the moment 
I have transacted my business I rise to take my 
leave, for I know well how chary these big-wigs are 
of the words they throw to us small fry, and, when 
I am particularly anxious to produce a good impres- 
sion, make myself scarce with the greatest prompti- 
tude. 

“ Oh, by the way, Miss Ten Eyck, I have a letter 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


27 


for you,” he says, as I am half-way through the 
door. 

“For me?” I say, in surprise. 

“Yes,” he answers. “ I hope it may be some fresh 
engagement ;” and searching among the papers on 
his wwiting-table he gives me a note. 

Where have I seen that bold, manly writing be- 
fore ? I can’t recollect, but I take the letter, and 
burning with curiosity I bid a hasty adieu. 

Where shall I read my letter ? In the cars, going 
home? No; I cross to the square, and walking 
down the long linden walk, turn to open it. The ' 
letter bears a large seal, and on it are the magic let- 
ters “ J. M.” It runs thus : 

Dear Miss Ten Eyck : — I trust you will pardon 
the liberty I take in thus addressing you, but having 
had the pleasure of hearing you several times, lately, 
I have become much interested in you — so much so 
that I am emboldened to ask you if it is not possible 
for me to become better acquainted with you. I 
inclose address, and shall be very much obliged for 
a reply. I am yours truly, 

J. Macadam. 

To say that I am furious at this letter is to use far 
too mild a term, and the consciousness that the 
slight is deserved does not in any way lessen the 
sting. I have been a romantic idiot over this man, 
making him the hero of my dreams, fancying him 
far superior to every other man born, endowing 
him with all the godlike attributes I would like my 
hero to possess, and lo ! he is an ordinary every-day 


28 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


individual who has such a poor opinion of me that 
he dares thus to insult me ! 

I blush with indignation at myself when I reflect 
that he has probably noticed how I stared at him, 
and concluded his addresses would be agreeable to 
me. 

Oh, I am well punished for my folly ! I go home 
crushed ; but T do not dare to mention the letter. I 
keep it to myself, and under the pretext of having 
harmony to study go to the den and think it all out. 
Several times I essay to burn the note, but at last 
change my mind — and answer it ! I write : 

Dear Sir : — I was both surprised and annoyed at 
your note. When I accepted your charming bou- 
quet, the other night, I never imagined you would 
construe that acceptance into a permission to address 
me. As to our becoming better acquainted, I should 
have thought you would have endeavored to dis- 
cover some mutual friend before you even contem- 
plated it. Yours truly, 

Winifred Ten Eyck. 

After much cogitation and many perusals I post 
this letter on the sly, and there the matter ends. 
Evidently “ J. Macadam ” has taken his snubbing 
and will trouble me no more. 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


29 


CHAPTER III. 

ABOUT T. M. 

I AM AFRAID I am lazy, but I do hate going 
out in the evening. Nothing pleases me more 
than for people to come and see us, but to dress and 
go out is to me one of the most intolerable nuisances 
To-night I am particularly unwilling. I am in- 
vited through some friends to an “at home” at Mrs. 
Messerole’s, a woman who is a great power in the 
musical world of New York ; and it is a sort of hall- 
stamp to be seen at her house, and to be her protege 
means speedy advancement. I ought to be over- 
joyed at the opportunity, but I am not, and I am 
wishing with all my heart that I had not to go. 

The friends who are to take me are very desirous 
that Mrs. Messerole should like me, and are very 
kind and encouraging about it, but only succeed in 
making me so frightfully nervous that I would give 
anything to be free to stay at home. Two of the 
greatest singers from the Metropolitan Opera are to 
be there, and when Mrs. Atherton tells me Mrs. 
Messerole is certain to ask me to sing I feel so awk- 
ward and abashed that I tremble at the mere thought 
of going. 

Womanlike, my mood changes as I begin to dress. 
I get strangely excited and am ready long before the 


30 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


Athertons, who are staying overnight with us, their 
home being over in Jersey. 

At last we are off, and as we drive along I cannot 
speak ; my mind is full of Mrs. Messerole. I am not 
superstitious, but I cannot help feeling as though 
something were going to happen to me to-night. I 
cannot tell whether it will be a joy or a grief, but 
there in my heart is the consciousness. I don’t say 
anything of this to Mrs. Atherton — it is really too 
silly to be worth mentioning — though she is one of 
those large-hearted women who understand all the 
faults and foibles of the human heart, and who has 
as many sympathies for the sinner as the saint. 

We reach our destination after what seems to me 
an interminable drive, and in the wake of Mrs. Ath- 
erton’s black lace dress I make my debut at Mrs. 
Messerole’s. My hostess is a fair, pretty woman, 
petite and well-dressed, with a charm of manner that 
sets me at my ease at once. 

We seat ourselves on a velvet couch to listen to a 
song which a far-famed contralto is going to sing. 

I am greatly interested in seeing so famous a per- 
sonage away from the scene of her triumphs, and 
find her far handsomer than she looks under the 
glare of the footlights. Her costume is superb — 
maize satin trimmed with bronzed beads and relieved 
with huge clusters of azaleas. 

She -sings, and I feel myself transported to Heaven. 
What a voice ! What command she has over it — 
one moment thrilling and soft as a bird’s, the next 
poured out in rich volumes of melody. I could kiss 
the hem of her dress as she sweeps away from the 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


31 

piano and returns to her seat beside an equally cele- 
brated soprano. They are both so gifted and hand- 
some they can afford to be good friends. 

I am in the midst of my enjoyment when the 
dreaded moment arrives and Mrs. Messerole, with a 
sweet smile, beckons me to the piano. My sensa- 
tions alter ; I don’t feel as if I were in Heaven, but 
ardently wish I were. 

Every one is very kind, there is a little encourag- 
ing hum of applause as I finish, and among it I hear a 
quiet “ brava.” The tone is so like that of a certain 
“ brava ” which I used to listen for a few weeks ago 
that I give an involuntary start and look round for 
“ J. M.” I don’t see him, but I do see Mrs. Messer- 
ole advancing toward me. 

Madam Siebel wishes to be introduced to you, 
Miss Ten Eyck,” and in a whirl of delighted amaze- 
ment I am presented to the great diva , who smiles 
pleasantly, says a few graceful words and then re- 
sumes her conversation, and I subside into a seat be- 
side Mrs. Atherton, glad that the moment I so 
dreaded has come and gone. 

I begin to get dull and a trifle bored, and make 
sly fun of myself for fancying this was going to be 
an eventful night in the quiet annals of my life’s 
history. 

Mrs. Messerole' s voice at my elbow rouses me from 
my reverie. 

“ Miss Ten Eyck, I want to introduce a great friend 
of mine to you — he is most anxious to make your ac- 
quaintance. Miss Ten Eyck, Mr. Macadam.” She 
glides away, and I raise my eyes to see — him ! 


32 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


I can say nothing ; my breath comes quickly, and 
I feel my face and neck flushing crimson. 

“ Will you not speak to me ?” he says at last. 

I try to, but cannot. He takes a seat beside me 
and pursues : 

“ Please don’t look so angry, and let me offer some 
explanation. I beg your pardon for sending that 
note. When I got your reply I was fearfully angry 
with myself for having caused you pain, and I have 
been trying ever since to find some mutual friend 
through whom I could obtain an introduction and 
make my apologies.” 

My heart flutters with pleasure, but I answer, 
coldly enough : 

“ I accept your apology, and there, I think, ends 
the necessity of further conversation between us.” 

He bows his head and is silent. I am dreading 
lest he should take me at my word and leave me, 
when suddenly he turns to me and asks : 

“ Do you mean me to go away ?” 

I can make no reply. 

“You are silent,” he pursues. “ Tell me your 
wishes and I will obey them.” 

I hesitate and then answer, resolutely : 

“ You did not send me flowers and write that note 
because you thought I was — I was ” 

“A lady? Well ” 

“ You sent them because you thought I was the 
kind of woman who would like that sort of thing ; 
and now, I trust, finding that I am not, you will be 
only too glad to make an end of this affair.” 

“ Indeed, no. I have gone to no end of trouble to 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


n • i 

o») 

try and meet you, and I should be but a silly 
fellow indeed to let you go the moment I had found 
you.” 

“ But when I am a disappointment,” I say, sar- 
castically. 

“You are not a disappointment. Must I speak 
plainly ? It seems so, for you are a very downright 
young lady. I became interested in you, and not 
being able to see how I was to know you, got des- 
perate and wrote.” 

“ But the flowers V 9 

“ The flowers I sent you as an artist, not as a 
woman.” 

The compliment pleases me and I smile. 

“ That’s right,” he says. “ I like to see you smile ; 
it suits you better than the fierce look with which 
you greeted me just now. Won’t you tell me some- 
thing about yourself, now that I have made my peace 
and we are friends ? Do you know many people here, 
and whom did you come with ? Is Mrs. Messerole 
a great friend of yours ?” 

He is older than I — a man — while I am still 
on the borderland between girlhood and woman- 
hood, and his calm air of authority sways me and 
bends me to his will. Had any other man thus 
questioned me I should in all probability have got 
in a passion and snubbed him, but Mr. Macadam I 
answer as quietly as though he had the right to 
question me. 

“ I don’t know Mrs. Messerole well,” I say. “ This 
is the first time I have been here, and the friends 
who brought me did so with the hope of getting 


84 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


Mrs. Messer ole to use her influence to help me in 
my profession.” 

“ How proudly you say that,” he laughs. “ But 
you have not told me who brought you.” 

I make a motion toward the Athertons, who are 
beside me. He glances around. 

“ What !— the Athertons ? This is fortunate !” he 
exclaims. “Why, I used to know them very well. 
When Miss Hendricks moves away I will renew my 
acquaintance ; but now that we have a moment to 
ourselves, tell me something about your own life.” 

“ What do you want to know ?” I ask, laughing. 

“Anything, everything ; there is nothing you can 
tell me that will not interest me in the highest 
degree.” 

Little by little he draws out all there is to tell. 

“How we are quite old friends,” he says. 

“ Hardly,” I answer. You seem to have made 
me unburden my mind about myself, but I am still 
quite in the dark about you.” 

He laughs. 

“ There is nothing worth knowing about me. I 
am simply an old fellow who has been knocking 
round the world a bit.” 

I can hardly repress a smile at this man of five- 
and-thirty calling himself old ; but he is talking, and 
laughs in a very mirth-provoking way, as he says : 

“ How nervous you were the first time I saw you. 
1 quite thought you were going to break down.” 

“Yes, and you got dreadfully bored, and wished 
me anywhere.” 

“ Ho, on my word. I was truly sorry for you, 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


35 


and was wishing I could do something to help you. 
I wondered how I should have felt if I had been 
forced to stand up and sing before a whole crowd of 
people. It is wonderful to me how you can do it. 
I am sure I should never have* courage to open my 
mouth. Can you see all the people before you ?” 

“ Oh yes, perfectly.” 

“ And see whether they are listening to you, or 
yawning, or sleeping?” 

“ Yes, quite as distinctly as we can see the people 
around us now.” 

“ Then for the future I shall be more careful of 
my behavior at concerts. I am afraid I have often 
hurt the singer’s feelings by looking bored when the 
concert was a trifle too long or too classical, and 
I could not get away. I am not a musical man at 
all. I like the old-fashioned ballads and Scotch 
songs that have plenty of lilt to them. But the 
songs of to-day are too much for me ; I can’t under- 
stand them, they can’t sympathize with me, and 
we mutually annoy one another.” 

“Well, for an unmusical man you have been to a 
good many concerts lately,” I say, slyly. 

“I am afraid you will have to answer for the 
mania,” he says. 

And then Miss Hendricks moves away, and he 
goes to make himself known to Mrs. Atherton. 

“ You in Hew York !” I hear her sav, in surprised 
tones. “ Why, you are the very last person I ex- 
pected to meet. Why, it must be quite live years 
since we saw you last.” 

“ About that,” he answers ; and then Mr. Ather- 


36 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


ton comes up, and they enter into a long chat about 
old times and old friends, and I sit quietly by, feel- 
ing strangely contented and happy. 

I don’t heed what they are saying, but look around 
me at the well-dressed, pretty women ; and then 
from the inner room, which is so charmingly cur- 
tained and lighted that it looks like a fairy bower, 
comes the delicious strains of a concerto for violin and 
piano. 

Have you ever noticed how a sound will come and 
go, be now loud and now dim, though all the while 
you know perfectly well that the object from which 
it proceeds has never moved ? The ticking of a clock, 
for instance, is especially aggravating in this way. I 
have lain awake for hours thinking, when suddenly 
I have become aware of the ticking of the clock 
on the table at my bedside ; I have listened intently 
to it, and heard it grow faint and dim almost to 
dying away, and then suddenly break out louder than 
ever. I used to dabble in Spiritualism, and fancied 
it w T as an angel floating through the room. 

While I am silently gazing about the room the 
Athertons’ conversation has become so dim and in- 
distinct that it has died out of my hearing, when sud- 
denly Mr. Atherton says : 

“ Well, Macadam, and how has the world been 
using you lately ?” 

“ Oh, fairly well. It is not a bad sort of a world.” 

“ You speak as a prosperous man, but how about 
your balance at the Bank of Content ? If Fortune 
has been kind to you, what has Fate been doing for 
you? You must pardon my asking questions, but 


A PROUD DISHONOR . 


37 


when a friend you value suddenly drops out of your 
circle, and reappears as suddenly after a lapse of 
years, it is hard to help doing so.” 

“ I am half-inclined to be offended with you for 
adopting that formal tone,” Macadam answers. “ I 
am glad you take sufficient interest in me to care to 
know how I have fared. To use your own meta- 
phor, I have a fair balance at the Bank of Content ; 
and my credit is good, for I have never overdrawn.” 

“Have you no deposit account?” Mrs. Atherton 
says earnestly. “After all these years, have you 
formed no home ties ?” 

Mr. Macadam winces, and his voice is strange and 
a little grave as he replies : 

“ Ho, I have no home ties.” 

“ You have no wife, then?” Mr. Atherton says. 

I wonder why he is so persistent, for apparently 
this question is obnoxious to Macadam, who frets 
under it. He turns his head, and I feel his gaze 
upon me. He evidently wishes to know if I can 
hear. I try to look unconscious, but I feel my color 
rising under this steady scrutiny. He seems delib- 
erating what to reply, and I begin to wonder why 
he does not answer more readily, and to feel a sense 
of pain as the idea crosses my mind, “What if he 
has a wife, after all ?” I listen eagerly for the reply 
that is so long in coming. 

“ I am a lonely man, Atherton. As I said just 
now, I have no home ties. How long have you been 
here? Were you in time to hear S sing?” 

The conversation glides off into ordinary channels, 
and at last into the one toward which he has been 


38 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


trying to guide it. Mrs. Atherton, noticing the fre- 
quent glances he has been sending in my direction, 
offers an introduction. 

“ Mrs. Messerole has already been kind enough,” 
he says ; “ and, indeed, it is through Miss Ten Eyck 
that I first became aware that you were here.” 

I am drawn into the talk, and a truly pleasant 
chat follows. Then we take our leave. 

“ Are we to lose sight of you again ?” Mrs. Ather- 
ton asks. 

Macadam looks hard at me and answers : 

“ Most emphatically, no. I shall remain in New 
York for the present and look you up soon, and, if I 
may, often. The same old house on Fifty -seventh 
Street, I suppose ?” 

“Oh no; we are living at Madison, now. We 
will be delighted to have you come whenever you 
can ; only you must let us know beforehand, as we 
live three miles from the depot. When you do come, 
it must be with the understanding that you are go- 
ing to spend a few days with us, for now that we 
are beyond ordinary calling distance we like to keep 
our friends, when they come to see us.” 

“ I shall be only too delighted,” Macadam answers ; 
“ but surely it is too far for you to be going back 
to-night ?” 

“Yes, our last train leaves at midnight; but we 
are staying with Miss Ten Eyck’s mother.” 

“ Oh — in town ?” 

“Yes; but we are returning to-morrow, and the 
sooner you come to us the better we shall be 
pleased.” 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


39 


He looks disappointed. He evidently wished to find 
out where I was living, but of course can say no 
more, and a moment later we are driving away. 
He gives me one long look as we are bidding adieu, 
and I know it means that we shall meet again. 

A quiet contentment has settled down on my 
heart. I am not vexed that he said no parting word 
to me nor ventured to touch my hand ; I feel all is 
well and am happy. 

Am I in love with this man? I cannot tell. I 
have a strange disinclination to speak about him, 
and in the conversation that ensues, as we roll away, 
I take no part ; and even when I am giving mother 
and Lottie an account of the night’s doings I can 
find no words in which to speak of him, so he goes 
unmentioned. How glad I am that I kept that 
letter to myself ! 


40 . 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


CHAPTER TV. 


IN WHICH I MAKE A VISIT. 


HE MORNIHG not very long after the recep- 



tion at Mrs. Messerole’s an invitation reaches 
me to go for a week to the Athertons, at Madison. 

There is nothing particular to keep me in town, 
and Madison is so near that, did anything necessitate 
my return, I could be home in a couple of hours ; so 
I accept, and in due course start. 

Arrived at Madison, I at first see no one to meet 
me, and begin wondering if I have made a mistake 
in the train, when round the corner of the station 
comes a figure which I recognize with a glow of 
pleasure. It is Mr. Macadam. 

“ I began to think you had missed the train,” he 
says, as he greets me. 

His manner disappoints me. I feel myself flush- 
ing with pleasure at sight of him, and he just touches 
my hand, hardly looks at me, and then in a business- 
like way directs a man to gather up my belongings 
and leads the way to the neat dog-cart that is wait- 
ing. 

“ Atherton talked about fetching you himself, but 
something called him away and I volunteered in his 
stead,” he says, and then lifts me carefully to my 
seat, tucks the rug well round me, and looking after 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


41 


my comfort in every way, swings into his own seat 
and we are off. Then it occurs to me that he is a 
man who prefers deeds to words, and that, after all, 
it is nicer to have a person careful &bout one than 
demonstratively glad to see one and careless. 

How I enjoy the drive ! The birds sing, the sun 
shines gloriously, and I feel that it will always be 
sunshine for me when he is near. 

How exhilarating it is to be driving swiftly along 
— to feel the wind rushing madly past you, hurrying 
as fast to its appointed goal as you to yours ; to feel 
that you are cutting your way through the air, forc- 
ing a passage for yourself and defying the strong, 
keen breeze. It is a wild, intoxicating sensation. 
“ Faster ! Faster !” I could cry, as the mare’s nimble 
feet fly along the road, seeming scarcely to touch the 
ground they pass over. 

“You are very silent,” Macadam says. “ Of what 
are you thinking ?” 

“ I don’t know that I had any thoughts. I was 
simply happy drinking-in the pleasure of this mo- 
ment, and neither desiring nor dreaming of another.” 

He looks at me curiously. 

“You are an odd girl. What makes you so 
happy ?” 

“ The fact of living and being. The few moments 
before you disturbed me were worth worlds to me. 
By the law of compensation I ought to suffer a good 
deal to make up for the perfect happiness I enjoyed 
then.” 

“ But what was it all about ?” he asks, seeming 
rather amused. 


42 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


“ If you must bring it down to earth and measure 
it by the square inch, it amounts to nothing ; simply 
driving rapidly through a beautiful country, with 
the earth in its summer garb and the wind whist- 
ling round us.” 

“ And did that make you so contented ? You are 
lucky to be able to get happiness from so little. I 
must venture to disagree with you on one point, 
though, for I should' think that with such a disposi- 
tion as yours, trouble could never touch you.” 

“ On the contrary, trouble is far more likely to lay 
a heavy finger on me than on one who would look 
at things from their commonplace side, and be in- 
clined to think me a trifle mad for being enraptured 
over so little. But even my little was not perfect, 
for underlying it was an irritating sense that in a 
moment something would come to turn my thoughts 
back to the dull routine of daily life. Everything 
nice seems to have its alloy of disappointment. I 
wonder if anyone has ever known a moment in life 
so satisfying that it left nothing to be longed for, 
nothing desired ?” 

He shakes his head gravely, and I go on : 

“ Every happiness that life gives wants something 
else to complete it. Is it not so ? Ho matter how 
keen the enjoyment, there is always that feeling that 
if only some one thing were added or taken away 
the sum of bliss would be made up. But there is al- 
ways that want. How, a moment 'such as I have 
tried to describe is the nearest approach to happiness 
I know, and is almost perfect. I am out of myself, 
as it were. The enjoyment comes from the soul — or 


A PROUD DISHONOR . 


43 


rather the spirit — to the senses, filling them to over- 
flowing with content ; but when things are reversed 
and the happiness conies from the senses then discon- 
tent arises, for everything tinged with self is robbed 
of its purity.” 

“ You are right,” he says. “ But this precise idea 
never occurred to me before.” 

“ I suppose, then, your life has been so happy that 
there have never been days, or even hours, that have 
seemed so bright to you that you have put them by 
in the store-house of your memory, to bring out and 
dwell on when life was dark and troubles heavy ?” 

“ God knows I need to have laid by such treas- 
ures, but I have not done so. I have taken what 
good came to me and made the most of it ; and as 
for the evil, I have done my best to put it from me 
and find some Lethean water to soothe my pain. 
Not so romantic a way as yours, but as effectual. 
But what a dull topic we have drifted on ! The 
theory you propound is a strange one, to come from 
the lips of a bright young girl. You are a bit of a 
‘ blue,’ I am thinking.” 

“ Not the tiniest little atom. I am far more of a 
dunce than a ‘ blue.’ ” 

“ Then what has given }^ou these ideas ? Have 
you known trouble ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ What ? Losing a sweetheart ?” 

I notice that he looks round anxiously for my re- 

ply- 

I laugh. 

“That is like asking a man who has had his leg 


44 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


cut off if he has ever had such a bad pain as the 
toothache.” 

“ Do you mean that you have had real trouble ? 
Tell me what it was.” 

“ There is no past tense to it. It is, and always 
will be. But it is not of a kind to interest a 
stranger.” 

“ Please don’t regard me in that light ; every- 
thing that concerns you interests me. I am always 
thinking about you. Won’t you confide in me ?” 

“ There is nothing to confide,” I answer, fearful 
of the earnest tone he uses and yet pleased at the 
interest he shows. “My trouble is of the most 
commonplace and prosaic kind — a trouble that in 
all probability would disgust you. It is but going 
through the small sieve. Ever since I can remem- 
ber we have been struggling with the grim specter, 
Poverty.” 

Again he nods his head in the grave way he has, 
and then looks round at me with an amused smile. 

“ And what part has a child like you been able 
to take in this struggle ?” 

“Well, perhaps not much of a part,” I answer, 
apologetically. “You see, I am not ‘able to teach, 
and my singing has cost a great deal, so I have done 
little but help my sister to take the weight off 
mother’s shoulders.” 

“ And you call that nothing ?” he says with earn- 
est gentleness. “ Why, when I spoke I fancied your 
fight with Poverty meant foregoing a new pair of 
gloves every now and then. Believe me, I did not 
mean to laugh at real trouble.” 


A PROUD DISHONOR . 


45 


“ Oh I don’t mind ; my sister and I often laugh 
over our difficulties. They are so innumerable that 
at times they get grotesque, and we enjoy a hearty 
laugh at our own expense.” 

“ Is your sister as odd as you are ?” 

“ I am not odd.” 

“ You are the strangest girl I ever met,” he says; 
and then he flicks the mare with the whip, and 
sends her flying along the road, and for the next 
few minutes conversation is impossible. 

“Tell me,” he says, when she slackens speed, 
“ were you not surprised to see me at the station ?” 

“ Y es — you were the last person I expected to 
see.” 

“ And were you pleased ?” 

“ What a question! I never gave the subject a 
thought,” I answer carelessly, turning my face aside 
to avoid his gaze. 

“I came over on Saturday,” he pursues. “I just 
intended staying over Sunday, but a little bird 
whispered that a certain young lady was expected 
during the week, so I was nothing loath to accept 
Atherton’s invitation to stay longer, and shall most 
likely be here all the time you are.” 

I don’t feel it incumbent on me to say anything 
civil and make no answer, but a deep contentment 
settles down in my innermost heart. Ought this 
gladness to be checked? Am I letting this man 
flatter all my good sense away when I ought to be 
arming myself for a battle whose issue will be life 
or death ? I cannot tell, but I do not think so. If 
Mr. Macadam were just an ordinary trifler he would 


46 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


hardly have chosen his friend’s house for the scene 
of his conquests, nor selected a girl under the pro- 
tection of these same friends for his victim. My 
position toward him has materially altered since the 
note and bouquet episode. Then I should have been 
fulfilling a duty in shunning him ; now w T e meet as 
equals. 

“You are very silent,” he says, after a time. 
“ Are you enjoying another blissful moment ? Mo — 
the expression is not serene enough for that. You 
are puzzling over some knotty point.” 

“ I was thinking about you,” I say, without reflect- 
ing what I am saying. 

He laughs his low laugh of enjoyment. 

“ I was right, then ; you have indeed fixed your 
thoughts on a knotted, gnarled old stick. Oddly 
enough I was thinking of you. I wonder whether 
our thoughts were running in the same groove? I 
was thinking how we had met and become ac- 
quainted, despite a certain savage letter which put 
all idea of such a thing so entirely out of the ques- 
tion.” 

He looks slyly at me, but I have no time to reply 
for here we are. 

Mr. Atherton comes to meet me, Mrs. Atherton 
and the children welcome me at the hall door, and 
their greetings give me a comfortable feeling that 
they are really glad to see me and have me with 
them. 

We troop into the drawing-room and have after- 
noon tea, over which I unfold my budget of news 
and hear all they have for me in return. 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


4 ? 


Then I go up to my room, and after awhile comes 
dinner. After dinner we play billiards — at least I 
looked on interestedly, for I am an indifferent 
player, and the anxiety that I must always cause my 
host about his cloth makes me so nervous that I get 
no fun out of it. 

The evening passes away very pleasantly, and I 
am quite sorry when bed-time comes. A few min- 
utes after I have gone to my room Mrs. Atherton 
comes to see if I have everything I want, and as she 
kisses me good-night says : 

“Well, are you quite satisfied with your con- 
quest ?” 

I laugh and try to look unconscious. 

“ Ah, you naughty , sly girl, we should never have 
found anything out from you ; but then it is a well- 
known fact that quiet girls are always the worst.” 

“ But what have I been doing ?” I ask, laying down 
my brush on the toilet-table and tossing back my 
hair. 

“ I declare you look as innocent as your own white 
gown. But it is no good, Winnie ; some one else is 
not half so discreet.” 

^ In what way ?” I ask quickly, wondering if he 
can possibly have told about the note. 

Mrs. Atherton laughs. 

“ Oh, he tried to be very cautious, but we soon 
saw through him. He came to us one Sunday, and 
kept dropping in little questions about a certain 
Miss Ten Eyck ; at last he said he was very much 
interested in her, and would greatly like to meet her 
again. My stupid old husband would not see it at 


48 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


all, and only replied that he hoped to get yon to 
come to us before long. Poor Macadam was com- 
pletely nonplussed. At last we settled a day for him 
to come to us, and he soon found out that you were 
also coming about the same time. He accepted 
our invitation for Saturday until Monday, when I 
am quite sure that he knew you were coming on 
Tuesday — the hypocrite! I tell you, Winnie, I am 
delighted about it, for it would be such a nice thing 
for you.” 

I feel the hot blood rushing all over my face. 

“ But, Mrs. Atherton,” I protest, “ he only thinks 
of me as a pleasant companion.” 

“Yes, a pleasant companion for life. Listen to 
me, Winnie. I have known James Macadam for 
years, and he is not the sort of man who goes danc- 
ing after a whole crowd of women. If he shows a 
liking for a girl it means something. Jim is a good 
fellow. We don’t find him the least altered for his 
absence abroad ; he is just 4 exactly the same, unless 
he is even a little nicer than he used to be. He is 
very well off, too ; aud on the whole, dear, it is a 
remarkably good thing for you. I would rather see 
you the wife of such a man than the most celebrated 
singer of the day. Good-night, dear. Sleep well, 
and dream of Jim Macadam.” 

With a light laugh she goes away. I feel, even 
while she is speaking to me, that she has done me 
an immense amount of harm. She has meant to be 
kind, but she has put ideas into my head that had 
far better have been kept out of it. 

I like Mr. Macadam. In a wa}^ I am in love with 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


49 


him — a romantic school-girl sort of way that means 
little more than a passing fancy; but after Mrs. 
Atherton leaves me new thoughts come crowding 
into my brain. The room is not large enough to 
hold them, and drawing a chair to the window I 
throw it wide open and lean my arms upon the sill 
as I look out into the moonlit garden. 

I think of him not as I thought before, as a jolly 
man I like to talk to, but in a newer, holier light. 
I think of him as my husband ; I try to picture a 
life spent with him. I imagine myself as his wife, 
caring for him, supplying his wants — a friend and 
companion, as well as wife. 

Sweet thoughts ! but thoughts that play the very 
mischief with me. Never again can I regard him in 
the old light, after to-night. I have let him take a 
hold on my life that nothing can shake off. I feel 
it and know it while I dream, but yet I do not rouse 
myself ; the dream is too sweet. 

I know well how wrong I am, for when a woman 
once thinks of a man in the light of her husband 
there is no longer the slightest possibility of her 
forgetting him or turning cold to him. She only 
thinks thus of one man, and that man has it in his 
power to make or mar her life as he will. 

After a long, long time I leave my window and 
get to bed, and for once sleep is kind and repro- 
duces my waking visions. 


50 


A PROUD DISHONOR , 


CHAPTER Y. 


AN ADVENTURE AND ITS RESULTS. 

E HAYE been having some delightful days. 



V V The weather has been glorious. To-day, as 
I go down to breakfast, I think to myself that this 
is going to be the finest of them all. 

“ What weather !” I exclaim as I meet Mr. Mac- 
adam in the hall. “ The sun has never ceased shin- 
ing for the last three days.” 

“ The sun has never ceased shining for me since 
you came,” he says in a half-serious tone, and fol- 
lows me out on the veranda to wait until the prayer- 
bell rings. 

The Athertons are English to the backbone, and 
keep up all the customs of the old country in a 
marked degree. Mr. Atherton came out from Eng- 
land as a young newspaper man. His talents soon 
attracted the attention of the proprietor of an engi- 
neering journal, and after a few years of Hercu- 
lean labor Tom Atherton was able to send to Eng- 
land for the woman for whom he had been working 

O 

in his quiet, undemonstrative way ; whose image 
had cheered him in his darkest hours and spurred 
him on when, in his moments of despondency, he 
fancied his efforts to make the journal the organ of 
the East had been unappreciated. My father knew 


A PROUD DISHONOR . 


51 


him when he w T as a struggling journalist, and my 
mother had often told me how happy he was after 
dear Mrs. Atherton came out and they were mar- 
ried, and how he prospered until he became part 
proprietor of the paper he had helped to build up 
and bought the lovely home in Madison. 

Every morning, therefore, in accordance with the 
custom of their childhood, the whole household as- 
sembles for family prayer, and this is the only rule 
of the house to which visitors and inmates must 
alike comply ; and to be absent from prayers is to 
seriously offend both host and hostess. 

"While we are waiting we chat in our usual bright 
way, for we are capital friends, Mr. Macadam and I 
— we agree on so many points. Our tastes are in 
many ways so similar that we always enjoy our op- 
portunities for a quiet chat. 

There seems to be a generally received idea that 
people like their opposites best ; that for a husband 
and wife to agree, they must disagree on almost 
every subject. To me it seems a very absurd notion. 
What is pleasanter than exchanging ideas with a 
person of your own tastes? What more trying 
than talking to a person whom you know to be 
opposed to you in every thought ? 

My ideas of domestic bliss are certainly very dif- 
ferent from this. I should seek a second self — one 
w r ho would think as I thought, only more wisely ; 
feel as I felt, only more strongly ; and see as I saw, 
only more clearly. 

It seems thus with Mr. Macadam. Unless I read 
him very wrongly he is not a man who would con- 


52 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


descend to humbug, and I don’t think this sharing 
my tastes is pretense ; indeed I am sure of it, for 
there are one or two points on which we are at is- 
sue, and he does not attempt to conceal his real ideas 
because they happen to be adverse to mine. 

I confess I enjoy his society immensely; and 
whether it is the idle time or the fatal talk with 
Mrs. Atherton I cannot say, but day by day he 
grows more into my life, and frequently I have to 
scold myself for indulging in a dreamland where he 
is the central figure. 

To-day is the birthday of Alice, the eldest girl, 
and there is to be a high festival. Mr. Atherton is 
an ardent lover of cricket, and has organized a 
cricket club in the neighborhood, and has given a 
meadow adjoining his property for the field. 

The birthday is to be celebrated by a cricket 
match with a New York club, and a garden party is 
to follow. 

People are coming from far and near, and it is to 
be quite the event of the season. 

Mrs. Atherton of course is tremendously busy, 
and I soon perceive that she finds her house guests 
dreadfully in the way. She suggests our taking a 
walk or playing tennis. The day is too hot for 
either and I am feeling a little despairing, when Mr. 
Macadam comes to the rescue. 

“Would you not like a drive?” he asks me. 

“ Immensely,” I answer; and then Alice clamors 
to come too because it is her birthday, and as soon 
as the dog-cart can be brought round we start. 

We drive through open country for some time, 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


53 


and at last turn into a shady lane where the inter- 
lacing branches of the trees are in some places so 
low that they brush our shoulders as w^e drive be- 
neath them, and we are forced to stoop to prevent 
them giving us a rough caress on cheek or brow. 

“I don’t care about this,” Mr. Macadam says. 
“ Here’s a turn in the road ; let us take it.” 

I feel inclined to remonstrate, and plead for the 
lane, which too me is too lovely for any minor con- 
siderations about comfort to have any weight ; but 
ere I can offer a word in its favor we have turned off. 

The new road at the first outset seems wider and 
vastly superior to the one we have left, and we 
laugh and joke as happy as three birds, or rather 
two old birds and a young one who tries to make 
believe it is quite as knowing as its elders. 

By and by the promising road' begins to narrow, 
and goes on getting narrower, until there is only 
room for the cart. It makes me think of the alle- 
gory of the road to destruction, the way is so broad 
and fascinating at the start ; but later, when it has 
narrowed till there is no room to turn back, it be- 
comes rough and unpleasant, and one has only to 
save one’s breath for the final hurry over the side of 
the bottomless pit. 

To our left is a high embankment, or rather a 
hilly wood, for the rising ground is thickly covered 
with firs and pines, which give it a very dismal air ; 
while to the right the road slopes off sharply, and 
the slope is covered with bracken and underbrush. 

I begin to admire the beauty of this contrast, and 
am surprised at receiving no response whatever from 


54 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


my companion, so turn to look at him. His face is 
set and stern. 

“ Why don’t you admire this ?” I ask. 

“Because I have to keep my attention for some- 
thing else,” he answers. “ I am wishing I had not 
taken this road, or that we were off it.” 

“Why?” 

“ Are you nervous ?” 

“ I don’t think so. Why ?” 

“ I am afraid we have a very ticklish bit of road 
coming.” 

The words are hardly said before a sharp turn re- 
veals to us the most awful hill I have ever seen. It 
is not very long but almost perpendicular, and the 
road goes sheer down without the slightest wind ; 
moreover it is a mass of bowlders and loose stones as 
big as a man’s body, and at the bottom is the rail- 
road track. 

I feel myself grow pale. Macadam, with his hands 
firmly grasping the buttons on the reins, says, in a 
low voice : 

“ For God’s sake sit still !” 

“ Is there any danger ?” 

“ Hot unless the mare becomes frightened. Keep 
that nervous child quiet. If she screams or a train 
passes, the mare will bolt.” 

I cannot repress an exclamation of horror. 

“Hush, Winnie,” he says, “and trust me. I 
would not have a hair of your head hurt.” 

With an effort I control myself, and turning back 
to Alice, engage her attention with something behind 
us. 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


55 


The whistle of a train sounds in the distance. I 
turn back horror-struck. We have almost reached 
the foot of the hill, and bearing down upon us is the 
train. The mare sees it, rears and snorts, and 
plunges madly forward. On comes the train, and 
as we dash over the bowlders as if they were peb- 
bles Alice realizes the situation and screams wildly. 
On comes the train. It is now but fifty yards from us. 

Macadam seizes the whip and brings it down with 
a mighty crash on the mare’s haunches. She rears, 
plunges, and paws the air, maddened at the unaccus- 
tomed chastisement. On comes the train. It is al- 
most upon us ; another moment and it will all be 
over, for no power on earth could stop us this side 
of the the tracks. Once more the whip descends ; 
again and again ; and then, with a snort of agony, 
the mare makes a vicious plunge forward, and with 
the speed of lightning dashes across the tracks not 
ten feet in advance of the flying train. 

A loud cry goes up from the men on the engine- 
cab, but we hardly hear it, for the mare is now wild 
with fear and running with all her speed. By a 
merciful providence the road is good and in a few 
moments begins to ascend a steep hill. The little 
mare’s strength gives out, and soon we are walking 
quietly along — saved ! 

Then Macadam turns to me with a strange light 
in his eyes, and taking my hand in his gives it a 
firm, warm grasp. 

“ Thank God you are safe, Winnie!” he says. 
“That was a narrow escape. You’re a brave little 
woman.” 


56 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


He looks into my eyes, and for a moment we sit 
thus, hand clasping hand, when we are roused by a 
shrill little piping voice in the background. 

“ Oh, you th illy man !” it says. “ Winnie ith not 
a little woman. The ’th a great big woman.” 

I am extremely obliged to the child, and turn and 
talk earnestly to her, while Macadam releases my 
hand and drives on. The embarrassment is by no 
means so easily got over, however, when we get 
home and little Alice rushes up to her mother with 
her story. 

“ Oh, Mamma,” she cries, “ we have had thuth a 
a lovely drive. And we went down a great hill, 
and Daithy ran away, and when thhe thtopped Mr. 
Macadam took W innie’tli hand and called her a little 
woman ! Wathn’t he a thilly man ?” 

I murmur something about taking off my hat and 
make for the door, but not quickly enough to escape 
Mrs. Atherton’s sly laugh. 

I take as long as I can to dress, and when I 
emerge am rewarded by finding Mrs. Atherton too 
busy receiving her guests to think about me. 

We have luncheon and then repair to the cricket 
field. 

It is a broiling hot day, and as I sit in the shade I 
watch with amazement the fearfully hard work the 
poor cricketers make of their play. 

I say something of this to Mr. Macadam, who sits 
beside me. He laughs outright. 

“ Those are the very last ideas I should have ex- 
pected from you ; you strike me as an athletic sort 
of girl who would enjoy all sorts of healthy exercise.” 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


5? 


I shake my head. 

“No? Well, then what do you enjoy? You 
must have some recreation, and care for somethiirn 
beside music ?” 

“ I don’t understand a country life ; all the pleas- 
ures I care about I find in town.” 

“ Nonsense. That is because you don’t know 
what the country means. You would love it — ah, 
how you would love it, Winnie — if I could only 
teach you !” 

This is too much ; twice in one djiy he has called 
me by my name. I determine to speak about it, so 
making myself as severe and forbidding as possible 1 
say: 

“ I don’t think I gave you permission to call me 
‘Winnie,’ Mr. Macadam.” 

He looks at me in an amused way and answers, 
calmly : 

“ I don’t know that you did, but why should I not 
do so ?” 

I answer him, with the most intense foolishness : 

“ What would anyone think who heard you?” 

“I can make no suggestion, but to avoid such 
a fearful catastrophe I had better only call you 
‘Winnie’ when we are alone.” 

I turn away my head and try to frame some prop 
erly-f or bidding answer, but I can find no word to 
say to him, and he takes my silence for consent. 

“ That’s all settled then, like a kind little woman, 
and we will be ‘Winnie’ and ‘Jim’ when we are 
alone, and only formal to each other when we are in 
what is called ‘ mixed society.’ ” 


58 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


I do not gainsay him, though I am fully aware 
that I ought not to allow the establishment of a se- 
cret understanding, and I turn hack to the contem- 
plation of the field with a somewhat perturbed 
spirit. 

Our side is winning, they tell me. I see them all 
very energetic, and evidently very hot, and I feel 
glad that they are going to meet with the reward of 
their labors. At last the stumps are drawn and the 
heroes of Madison have another victory to add to 
their list, which, thanks to Mr. Atherton, is already 
a long one. 

The match over, all the guests troop into the 
drawing-room for afternoon tea. It is tea for the 
populace. All the country-side seems to be on the 
lawn. Quite a number are staying to dinner, but 
the nearest neighbors drift home, to return later for 
a little carpet dance which is to wind up the even- 
ing. 

The house is so full that we have to double up. I 
have for my room-mate a typical Yankee miss, who, 
when we retire to dress, is full of the forthcoming 
“ hop.” 

“ I am sure it is going to be perfectly elegant. 
Jack Footner is here, and he always gives me a 
splendid time ! Are you fond of dancing ? Of 
course, as you live in the city, you go to all the 
hops. Oh, I do wish I lived in the city !” 

I smile inwardly at the idea of Lottie and me be- 
ing constantly invited to balls, and wonder, if we 
were, what in the world we would go in. We do 
own a ball-dress, but it is a joint affair, with an ad- 


A PROUD DISHONOR . 


59 


justable bodice that will fit either of us ; and, more- 
over, it has seen much service and is on its last legs, 
for I’ve outgrown it, and tore it so much the last 
time I wore it that no amount of persuasion will 
make it cover me again, and the family entertains 
grave doubts whether even Lottie’s slim person can 
figure in it once more with decency. 

These thoughts flit through my mind as I look at 
the girl who, while bemoaning her fate, is shaking 
out the folds of a beautiful creamy silk, made in the 
latest fashion ; and the contrast is so absurd that I 
fall into a fit of laughter. 

Edith Brewster is quite offended. She fancies I 
am laughing at her, and as I cannot possibly explain 
my joke, but, instead, make a feeble attempt at in- 
venting another, which goes off like a damp fire- 
cracker, there is a chance of our joint occupation 
turning into a civil war. 

“ Please don’t think I was laughing at you,” I say 
at last. “ It was only something that your question 
suggested. I know I seem rude, but I cannot ex- 
plain.” 

She eyes me doubtfully a moment, and then takes 
the matter good-naturedly, and as we dress we con- 
tinue to chat. 

Miss Brewster is tall, dark and handsome, a de- 
cidedly attractive girl, but scatter-brained, with but 
one idea — men ! Oh, the torture this genus inflict 
on their female friends! In five minutes I have 
learned what a lot of fellows admire her ; how Tom 
said this, and Dick that, and Harry wound up by 


60 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


“Did you notice Jack Footner? lie is such a 
charming fellow !” 

I answer in the affirmative, and go on brushing 
my hair, wishing Jack Footner, who is a fair, insipid, 
dudish-looking creature, at the bottom of the sea. 

“Well, Jack lives in town, but he has some 
friends at East Orange, where I live. It is about 
three miles from here; and, would you believe it, 
regularly every other Sunday he comes over from 
the city just to go to church with them, because 
their pew almost faces ours, and all through the 
service he sits and stares at me. It’s so embarrass- 
ing, because Tom and Dick can see him from their 
pews, and they are always declaring that I look 
back at him ; but of course I don’t.” 

I give a grunt, which I make as interested as I 
can, and reflect with what delight Mr. John Foot- 
ner’s friends must hail the off Sundays. 

Miss Brewster babbles on : 

“I made half a conquest this afternoon, and I 
mean to finish it to-night and flirt violently just to 
make Jack angry.” 

“ Oh, but that’s very unkind.” 

“ Oh no, it is not ; and now I want you to do me 
a favor. Will you curl my hair? I am so clumsy 
at it myself, and I want to look as nice as possible 
to captivate this new man; then I’ll help you to 
dress and introduce you to Jack Footner.” 

“Heaven preserve me from it!” is my mental 
ejaculation ; but aloud I say : 

“ Won’t you be jealous ?” 

“Jealous!” she says, seating herself and deliver- 


A PROUD DISHONOR . 


61 


ing her head into my hands. “ Oh dear, no ! I 
shall be far too much interested in this new man to 
care. You were talking to him this afternoon. 
What is his name ?” 

A sudden horrid thought comes into my mind. 
Does she mean Mr. Macadam ? I answer, constrain- 
edly : 

“ I was talking to several men ; which one do you 
mean ?” 

“ Oh, that handsome, military-looking man with 
gray hair.” 

“ And you have captivated him ?” I say. 

“Yes. I noticed his eyes following me all the 
afternoon.” 

I feel inclined' to tell her flatly that I don’t believe 
it ; that I know better than she does what he was 
doing with his eyes all the afternoon ; and then the 
reality of the situation flashes across me. Here am 
I, combing and curling this empty-headed simpleton 
to rival me in his eyes ! Will I do it ? Ho ! 

In my right hand I hold the curling-irons, and 
they are almost red-hot. What if I singe half her 
•fringe off? That will spoil her beauty for her! 
She says she is clumsy ; why should not I be the 
same? I have no advertisement about the room 
proclaiming me an artist in hair ! I’d like to take 
the tongs and write CAT all over her face for daring 
to try and take him from me ! 

I stand irresolute, determined to damage her 
somehow, when she begins to babble again about that 
simple idiot, Jack. Without knowing it she has 
saved herself from a deadly peril. 


62 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


“ No,” I say to myself. “ If this lunatic can please 
Mr. Macadam more than I can, let her. If he likes 
her society better than mine, let him have it. I 
won’t condescend to own her as a rival, for the men 
who like her won’t like me.” 

So I curl her hair and help her to adorn herself, 
and when she is ready I cannot help acknowledging 
that she looks remarkably well ; and when I too am 
dressed, I feel that I never looked worse in my life. 
I also feel irritated and cross as we go down the 
stairs, and by no means equal to the ordeal of the in- 
troduction to Mr. Footner, which (worse luck) takes 
place the moment we set foot in the drawing-room. 

A few moments later I have the pleasure of seeing 
Miss Brewster introduced to Mr. Macadam, and I 
watch her dimpling and smiling, and looking £o 
chapming that I feel sure he cannot help being fasci- 
nated. 

I am afraid I give poor Jack Footner a far from 
pleasant quarter of an hour, for, after all, he would 
not be a bad fellow if he only had a little sense. 

We go into dinner. Mr. Macadam takes her, of 
course, and I am saddled with this poor, inoffensive 
booby, who says “ Oh, aw, weally,” to every re- 
mark I make, and then strokes his moustache and 
looks as if he thought I should bite him. Mr. Foot- 
ner may be a beautiful waltzer, but he certainly is 
the most idiotic talker I ever encountered. 

Our conversation goes very lamely, and down the 
table I see Macadam laughing heartity over some- 
thing Edith Brewster has just said. Apparently 
they are enjoying themselves supremely. 


A PRODD DISHONOR. 


m 

Dinner comes to an end at last, and to escape that 
obnoxious girl’s eulogiums on Macadam I devote 
myself to a very charming old lady, and find her so 
chatty and amusing that I forget all my ill-temper 
and only wish men had never been invented — women 
are so much nicer. 

By and by they dance, and my old lady and I re- 
tire into the veranda, and sit there chatting in the 
warm summer night. She wants me to return to 
the drawing-room and join the dancers, but I won’t 
go. I don’t care so much for dancing as some girls 
do, who I believe would waltz with a chimpanzee if 
he only had the latest step. I only care to waltz 
with a man I like, and I don’t care to go back to see 
Edith Brewster whirling about in Macadam’s arms 
and feel myself out in the cold unless I can make 
shift with the Jacks of the party. I like my old 
lady, and I am now moderately good-tempered, so I 
prefer to stay where I am. 

“ There’s a gentleman down there who apparently 
cares as little for dancing as you do, my dear,” says 
my old friend. “ I have been watching him strolling 
about ever since we came here.” 

The man comes nearer to us, and I see it is Mr. 
Macadam. ITe has not been dancing, then ? What 
a disappointment for Edith, and what a glow of 
happiness for me ! 

He is passing us as we sit in the shadow, when 
the old lady says : 

“ I am sure you will take cold, dear ; you ought 
to have a shawl.” 

“Can I get you one?” he says, pausing. 


64 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


“ If yon would be so kind,” she says. And he re- 
turns in a moment with a soft wrap. He does not 
recognize me, for he places it round my shoulders 
with the most distant politeness. 

“ Thank you,” I say. “ I was beginning to feel 
rather cold.” 

He starts. 

“ Why, Miss Ten Eyck,” he says, “ I was looking 
for you everywhere! I fancied, when I could not 
find you, that you must have gone to your room, and 
so took a stroll outside.” 

“ Have you not been dancing ?” 

“Ho. I performed all the duties society required 
of me at dinner, and I made up my mind to enjoy 
myself after. We were badly placed. That fair 
fellow with you wanted to be in my place, and I 'en- 
tertained most unfriendly feelings toward him for 
being where I was wishing to be.” 

That nice old lady gets an idea of the true state 
of the case, for with the sweetest manner imagin- 
able she says : 

“If you don’t want to dance, sir, why not stay 
and talk to us? I am sure we can make room for you.” 

Tie bows and is introduced, and then seats himself 
beside me. We have another delightful chat. The 
old lady proves herself a most charming companion, 
and I am truly sorry when she says she must go in- 
doors, and advises us to have a waltz to warm our- 
selves, in case the damp air may have given us a chill. 

Macadam and I have one long and enjoyable 
dance, and then the part}^ breaks up. I go to bed 
content and happy, and very thankful that I did not 


A PROUD DISHONOR . 


65 


get jealous enough to look on Miss Brewster as a 
rival, for by keeping outside the lists altogether I 
have gained the prize for which she was tilting. 
She amuses me intensely when we are safe within 
our room. 

“ I could not keep it up,” she ejaculates, throwing 
herself into a chair. 

“ Keep up what V 9 

“ Why, that flirtation with Mr. Macadam. Poor 
Jack was so terribly upset at the attention he paid 
me at dinner that I was really afraid he would do 
something desperate, so I snubbed Mr. Macadam 
fearfully — I was very sorry, but I could not help it, 
you know — and he, poor fellow, went away and 
never danced all the evening. I hope he was not 
very angry with me.” 

“I don’t think so,” I answer, too serene to tri- 
umph over her. “ From what I have seen of him, I 
should think he was a very kind sort of man.” 

Then I hurry into bed to the tune of w r hat Jack 
said and did, and the moment my head is on the 
pillow I close my eyes, and without waiting for a 
decent interval in which sleep would be likely to 
come to me I breathe heavily and simulate slumber 
so admirably that after several futile attempts to 
get answers from me Miss Brewster rises from the 
arm-chair and leisurely proceeds to unmake her 
toilet for the night. 

She is asleep long before I am, and I lie thinking 
over all the events of the day and watch the moon- 
light silvering the gardens without. 

At last I sleep, and it appears to me that I have 


66 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


only just closed, my e}^es when I am shaken gently. 

“Get up, Miss Ten Eyck! It is such a lovely 
morning. Do get up.” 

“ Oh bother,” I growl, and snuggle myself into 
my nook again. 

“ It’s time to get up,” my tormentor urges. 

This time I rouse myself and sit up in bed, to see 
the sun streaming brightly into the room, and the 
fair Edith figuring about in a wrapper. 

“ It can’t be time to get up yet for the tea has not 
come, and Ellen always brings it at half -past six.” 

“ Oh, but very likely she has forgotten, there was 
so much extra work yesterday. Do get up ; only 
fancy if the prayer-bell were to ring.” 

I twist myself on to the edge of the bed, and sit 
there dangling my feet and trying to collect my 
scattered senses. Miss Brewster is most attentive. 

“ There are your slippers, and here is your wrap- 
per,” bringing them to me and putting them on. 
“ Now do come to the window and look out ; it is 
a lovely morning.” 

I cross to the open window and make a survey. 

“Yes, it looks nice enough, but very early.” 

Hardly have the words passed my mouth when a 
tap comes at the door. 

“ Ellen with the tea,” I cry. “ It’s only half-past 
six and with one bound I am back in bed, wrap- 
per, slippers and all. 

Ellen corroborates my statement when she comes 
in ; and having sipped my tea, and dallied with the 
delicate bread and butter, I snoozle down, deter- 
mined to have another nap. 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


67 


Edith Brewster comes and stands beside the bed. 

“ You are never going to sleep again ? Why, it 
is impossible ! You are wide awake !” 

“ I am not wide awake, and I want another sleep. 
Why on earth can’t you let me alone ?” 

“ Because I want you to get up and come for a 
walk with me ; I don’t like to go alone. I shall 
think it so kind of you if you will.” 

Like a goose I turn out of my cozy nest and begin 
to dress, though somewhat sulkily, I must confess. 
Miss Brewster gets quite impatient as I proceed in 
my usual deliberate way, and at last will wait no 
longer but goes to walk in the garden until I am 
ready. 

Thinking that perhaps she is dying for a breath of 
fresh air, after the fatigue of dancing, I hurry after 
her. As I reach the hall I hear laughing voices — 
Miss Brewster’s and a man’s — and looking through 
the window I see her busy talking to the ubiquitous 
Jack. 

I see it all in an instant. This is a prearranged 
meeting, and for some reason I am to be the cloak 
for it. I turn back indignantly, when another foot- 
step sounds through the hall. It is Mr. Macadam. 

“ Good-morning,” he says. “ Why, what is the 
matter? Don’t look so cross.” 

“ I am cross,” I answer. “ Miss Brewster insisted 
on rousing meat this unearthly hour to go for a walk 
with her, and when I am foolish enough to do as she 
wishes I find she only wants me to cover a meeting 
with that stupid young Footner.” 

“So you’ve been having a treat too, have you? 


68 


A PROUD DISHONOR . 


The redoubtable Jack shared my room, and started 
getting up at what seemed like the middle of the 
night. ITe made so much noise I could not help 
waking, and when he found what he had done 
seemed so awfully anxious to get me to sleep again 
that I was sure there was some fun on hand, and 
dressed to try and find out what it was. They had 
their little game all fixed, evidently.” 

“ Yes, and I am going to spoil it for them. Ho 
daisy-picking for me!” and I begin to remount the 
stairs. 

“ Winnie,” says Macadam, “why not accommo- 
date them, and let me come and help you ?” 

I hesitate. 

“ It is such a lovely morning,” he urges ; “ and 
now that you are dressed it is a shame not to make 
the most of it. Ho come.” 

I am doubting what to say when Edith Brewster 
runs into the hall, exclaiming : 

“ What a time she is !” Then she comes suddenly 
face to face with us. 

“ Oh, Miss Ten Eyck,” she says, “ do make haste. 
Mr. Footner is here, and would like to join us.” 

“And so should I,” Mr. Macadam says ; and then 
we all three go out into the garden. 

When I can rouse myself sufficiently early, there 
is nothing I like better than a before-breakfast 
walk. 

W e wander off two and two through the garden 
and into the meadows that skirt the lawn, and as we 
go we gather wild flowers, looking so fresh and 
dainty with the night dews, but alas ! so fragile! 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


60 


I always feel a monster when I give way to my 
passion for gathering wild flowers. It seems such 
wanton cruelty to pluck them from the nooks in 
which they have bloomed — to condemn them to no 
better fate than to be held for an hour or two in a 
hot hand, and when their vitality is all crushed out 
to be thrust, all limp and flabby, into a glass of 
water which will never revive them as one drop of 
their own dew would do. Then they are left 
neglected, and the eyes that in the morning coveted 
them for their beauty turn from them at noon, and 
they are cast out to die, forlorn and despised. Poor, 
pretty, tender things ! I feel the cruelty I do you, 
and yet I covet you — I must possess you ! All the 
joy is with me, all the pain with you. Why should 
I think about a pain I do not feel ? A man-like sen- 
timent, this, though not a manly one. 

I am utterly without scruple this morning, for 
Macadam, finding that I love them all, from the 
many-tinted leaves of the maple to the delicate little 
fern-fronds that grow by the road-side, gathers 
them unsparingly, and I do not seek to restrain him 
when he adds a wild rose, a dainty blue iris, or even 
a daisy, to my nosegay. 

“Mrs. Atherton said you were going back to- 
morrow,” he says. “ Is it so ?” 

“ Yes, I must get back.” 

“Must! Why can you not enjoy a few more 
days of pleasure ?” 

“ Because I have work to do ; I am ashamed of 
having been so lazy. I have not practiced once 
since I came !” 


70 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


“ But you have sung for us every evening.’’ 

“ I know, but that is very different from practic- 
ing.” 

“ Well, why not have one good practice and then 
stay another week ?” 

“ You talk like a millionaire,” Isay, half-laughing 
and half- vexed. “You don’t seem to Understand 
that singing is my business, and that if I neglect it 
bankruptcy must follow.” 

“ Of course if you put it in that light there is no 
more to be said. It is an unfriendly act to try and 
make you forego what you feel to be your duty ; 
but I hate to have you go ; I shall be lost when you 
are gone.” 

“ That is a pretty compliment to the Athertons,” 
I say. “ It is to be hoped that our charges have 
not oveyheard you, or you will be in a nice fix.” 

We turn to make sure they are not within ear- 
shot, and lo, they are nowhere to be seen, and we 
are alone. There is a low wall near by, and on it 
we seat ourselves to wait till they catch up with us. 

“We are fine daisy-pickers!” Macadam says. 

“It’s their fault; they. gave us the slip,” I ex- 
claim, indignantly. 

“ Well, somehow, I don’t think we were particu- 
larly careful in looking after them,” he answers in 
an amused voice. 

“ Perhaps not, but all the same it is too bad. If 
Miss Brewster does not mind roaming about the 
country with men at unearthly hours in the morn- 
ing, I da We will go back.” 

“ It is not so wonderfully early,” he says, looking 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 7J 

at his watch ; “ and as we are here, why not stay a 
bit ? This is probably the last chat we shall get to- 
gether if you go to-morrow ; let us make the most of 
it.” 

“Well, I will stay just five minutes,” I answer; 
and we sit looking at the sweet, peaceful scene be- 
fore us. 

“ When am I to see you again, Winnie ?” he asks 
at last. 

“ Oh, I don’t know ; perhaps we may not meet 
again.” 

“We will. I am not. going to let this be an eter- 
nal parting, I assure you. Winnie, may I come and 
see your mother ?” 

I am silent, lfeel as if a bomb-shell had suddenly 
exploded at my feet. Call on mother ? Why does 
he ask that ? It can be but for one reason ; because 
— because — he likes me ; and if he comes, what will 
he think of us? He will expect the door opened by 
a neat parlor-maid, or a man, and he will find — well, 
just my own home ; the coziest place on earth, but 
not the stylish place he expects, and he will go away 
disgusted. 

He breaks in on my reflections. 

“What, Winnie?” and his tone is offended; “am 
I not sufficiently your friend to be allowed to come 
and see your mother ? I am afraid, after all, you 
have found me but a prosy old fellow whom you 
don’t care to see more of.” 

“ Ho, oh no,” I say in a hurried, confused sort of 
way, wondering how I am to answer him. 

“ Then may I not come ?” he persists. “ I should 


72 


A PROUD DISHONOR . 


so much like to do so. I am deeply interested in 
you, and I want to know you better. I want you 
to regard me as a friend in the truest sense of the 
word, and if we trust to chance and the kindness of 
the Athertons for meeting I can never .hope to be 
more than an acquaintance.” 

Still I am silent, and my silence irritates and of- 
fends him; Dismounting from the wall, he says, 
stiffly : 

“ I did not wish to importune you, Miss Ten Eyck. 
I owe you an apology for trying to force my society 
on you.” 

I look up in his face. It is set and stern, and his 
eyes have a curious yellow gleam in them. I am 
distressed beyond measure, but I have not the re- 
motest idea what to do or say. 

“ Please don’t look so annoyed,” I manage to say 
at last. “I did not mean to offend you. You did 
not understand. There is nothing in the world I 
should like better than to have you know my mother 
and sister, but it is quite impossible.” 

The anger melts out of his face as he sees the dis- 
tress in mine. 

“Don’t look so piteous, you baby,” he laughs. 
“Am I such a monster that you are afraid of me? 
Tell me — why is it impossible ?” 

He reseats himself on the wall and lays his hand 
on mine. 

“ Tell me ?” he pleads. 

“ I cannot.” 

“ What ! Is the reason so terrible that you can- 
not even give it a name? Come, come, little 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


73 


woman,” and he pats my hand gently, “ I must hear 
all about it. Why may I not come and see you at 
home ?” 

“ Because it is not the sort of home you expect to 
see,” I blurt out. “ Because it is but a poor, shabby 
place, after a house like this ; and because we are 
poor, and not the sort of people for you to call on.” 

“Well, } T ou area funny girl,” he says, releasing 
my hand and laughing heartily. “And so the 
idlers of society are not to visit any but people as 
idle or wealthy as themselves? You are very hard 
on the idlers, Winnie.” 

“ Oh, that is not all,” I say, determined to have it 
all out and be done with it. “ We are not only poor, 
but we are all of us workers. I sing, my sister 
teaches, and mother does all sorts of pretty fancy 
work.” 

“ I can’t see where this bar comes in yet, or why 
you should not visit, or be visited by, anybody.” 

“Yes, but,” I go on desperately, “even thus we 
can’t make enough to support ourselves. We are 
obliged to — to — well, if you came in the afternoon, 
you would see a white-haired old lady seated in an 
arm-chair by the fireplace. She is neither aunt, 
cousin, nor yet old friend ; and if you came to din- 
ner you would meet another lady and gentleman, 
who are neither relations nor friends. They are 
‘boarding in a family,’ and we are the ‘family’ 
they board with.” 

Tie takes my hand again, and looks long and 
silently into my face ; then says, gently : 

“ Did you think I should not care to know you 


74 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


because you were struggling bravely against your 
want of means? No, Winnie, I honor and respect 
you all far more ; and if you will give me the privi- 
lege of your friendship I shall feel you are honoring 
me.” 

“ Do you mean it ?” I ask. 

“I am half-inclined to be angry with you for 
doubting me,” he answers. “No, Winnie; give me 
your address, and I will soon prove to you how 
deeply I am in earnest. I am not going to let you 
slip away from me, nor am I going to lose a friend- 
ship I value for such a trumpery thing as money.” 

I laugh out gayly. 

“ It is quite refreshing to hear some one speak so 
lightly of the great enemy, but ” 

I have no time to finish my remark, for a bell 
rings out loudly. 

“ Good gracious !” I cry, bounding off the wall. 
“ That’s the big bell ! They are at breakfast, and 
we have missed prayers ! Oh, what will they ever 
think ? Bother that Edith Brewster !” 

I round the corner fult tilt, and almost fall over 
the object of my remark. I am sure she must have 
heard me, but she looks so suave and sweet that I 
tremble lest there is something in the wind. 

“ Oh, here you are !” she ejaculates. “ I have 
been looking for you everywhere !” 

“ What have you done with Mr. Footner ?” I in- 
quire bluntly. “We found you had left us, so we 
sat on the wall to wait till you came.” 

“ Oh, he has been in the house some time, and I 
think it just a little bit unkind of you to have slipped 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


75 


away so cleverly. We have not had the walk I was 
longing for — have we ?” 

I look round at Mr. Macadam, and he gives me a 
quiet smile. I cannot return it, though, for I feel 
vexed and annoyed at the way this girl has made 
me her cat’s-paw. 

Two minutes later we enter the breakfast-room. 
To my intense astonishment I see young Footner 
and Miss Brewster bidding each other a ceremonious 
good-morning. What can it mean ? I am soon en- 
lightened. 

Mrs. Atherton calls down the table : 

“ Where have you truants been ?” 

Edith Brewster responds, glibly : 

“ Oh, Miss Ten Eyck wanted to go for an early 
walk, so we got up, and when we came down we 
found Mr. Macadam in the hall, and then we started 
and had such a delightful ramble.” 

I look up to set the matter straight. I see clearly 
the only construction that can be put upon her 
words, and I don’t intend to allow it ; but as I begin 
speaking I meet Macadam’s eye, and in it is a look 
which says, plainer than words, “ Don’t waste pow- 
der and shot over her so I refrain, but inwardly I 
am boiling with indignant fury. 

The worst has yet to come. After breakfast, 
when we are all dispersing, Mrs. Atherton calls me 
to her. 

“ My dear Winnie,” she says, putting her arm 
round me and speaking affectionately, “don’t feel 
hurt at what I am about to say, for I would not vex 
you, dear, for a great deal ; but I think you should 


76 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


be a little more reserved with Mr. Macadam. We 
all see the tremendous attention he is paying you, 
but at the same time it is a little too pronounced, 
dear, to go out for these early rambles. Don’t think 
I am in the least annoyed, Winnie, for I only tell you 
because I think so much of you ; but remarks were 
made that I did not like.” 

And I, because of that look on Macadam’s face, 
do not attempt to exonerate myself, but listen to all 
Mrs. Atherton says, and even appear to be grateful 
to her for so speaking ; but in my heart I am still 
burning with fury. 

How dare that girl put me in such a position ! 
How mean and contemptible she is to resort to such 
an expedient to get herself out of a scrape ! She 
must have seen what an idiot I was, for she seemed 
to rely on my silence with the most perfect confi- 
dence. As to that contemptible thing, Footner, 
words will not express my sentiments ; but if he 
ever gets Miss Brewster for a wife he will be pun- 
ished enough, so I need not trouble my head about 

him. But for her ! If I only could ! But then 

I can’t ; so the best thing to do is to go away alone 
and growl it out. 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


77 


CHAPTER VI. 

HE CALLS. 

I AM AT HOME. It is some few days since I 
returned, and I have had time to partially for- 
give Miss Brewster, who did have the grace to make 
a lame apology about her people not liking Mr. 
Footner, and being afraid they would know she had 
had a few words with him in private. I accepted 
the apology, but I took care to pour the whole 
grievance into Lottie’s sympathetic ear the moment 
I got home, and numerous and unflattering have 
been the epithets hurled after the fair Edith. 

I have also told them all about Macadam; of 
course I have not connected him with the flowers, 
and they know nothing about the note. 

Lottie is highly entertained at the firm faith I 
have in his calling on us — she herself is more than 
skeptical. 

“ If you really believe he will come, you had bel- 
ter keep a sharp eye on that dog Fluff and the 
doorstep ; for goodness’ sake don’t let’s disgust the 
man before he has crossed the threshold. We 
should look well with Fluff on the topmost step with 
a bone, and the cat on the lowest with some fish, and 
each swearing at the other. Such things have oc- 


78 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


curred, for those two animals are never whipped 
when they ought to be.” 

It is after lunch, the table has been cleared, and 
Lottie and I, having given a few extra touches to 
mother and ourselves, are doing as we have done 
each afternoon since there has been a likelihood of 
Macadam calling — freshening and tidying the room 
to make the best of ourselves and our surroundings. 

Our old lady has caught the infection and has put 
on her prettiest cap, and when all is in order we sit 
in state waiting for a visitor who does not seem to 
be coming. 

After awhile mutiny breaks out. Mother had 
been at work on some plain sewing which I had in- 
veigled away from her, and had given her, instead, 
some lovely art work ; but now she rebels. 

“ I don’t believe this man is coming,” she says, 
“ and I am not going to be hindered any longer;” 
and out comes the plain work. 

Then the old lady gets sleepy, and leaning back 
in her chair to get her nap, takes off her cap, and 
she too is at rest ; and finally Lottie brings out a 
roll of cloth from one of her secret receptacles and 
sets to work cutting out. 

I retire to the den to study Italian, and passing 
the kitchen stairs I find the mutinous feeling per- 
• vades the whole house. 

“ I’m agoing to clean my silver,” I hear the girl 
muttering, “ and if anyone comes to the door they ’ll 
have to go theirselves.” 

I have not been five minutes at my verbs before 
there is a tremendous ringing at the bell. I feel 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


79 


sure it is Mr. Macadam, and pop out of the den just 
in time to meet Mary coming up the stairs with her 
sleeves tucked up and a dirty apron on, and send 
her hurrying back to trim up. Then I make good 
speed to the sitting-room to find mother bundling 
away her unpresentable work, and Lottie, with the 
celerity for which she is deservedly famous, stuffing 
away her cloth into some cavernous recess of the 
sideboard ; while the old lady, wide awake, wrestles 
with her cap, and finally settles it with a coquettish 
tilt to the left. 

Our hall is not very spacious. A couple of steps 
brings the visitor from the outer door to the draw- 
ing-room, and possibly only ten seconds elapse be- 
tween my entry and the announcing of Mr. Mac- 
adam ; but in that time we have subsided into a 
calm, industrious family, each busy with some dainty 
work, and a stranger entering would think we had 
not stirred for hours 

W e have a happy knack of doing this sort of thing. 
Long practice and having but one sitting-room have 
made us perfect. 

Mr. Macadam looks so nice. as he enters the room 
that I feel proud to introduce him to my people, but 
prouder still to think he wants to come and be in- 
troduced. 

Mother takes to him in a moment, and as she ex- 
tends her hand says, warmly : 

“ I am delighted to have the pleasure of making 
your acquaintance. My daughter tells me you were 
very kind to her.” 

Then he is introduced to Lottie and our elderly 


80 


A PROUD DISHONOR . 


friend, and in five minutes he is chatting to them as 
if he had known them for years. 

I say very little, for I want to give them an oppor- 
tunity to find him out for themselves. I have the 
highest regard for their opinion, and even he will fall 
in my estimation if they do not like him ; but I am 
not afraid. 

“ Do you go much to theaters ?” he asks Lottie. 

He has been looking at her a good deal, and I can 
see he admires my dark, handsome sister. 

Lottie gives me a fleeting glance. The idea of our 
going to theaters much is evidently delicious to 
her. She responds, however, in a manner that is 
perfect : 

“ No, not often. We go more to concerts.” 

Again she gives me a sly glance, which means, 
“ We go to concerts because we get tickets given us ; 
theaters are not much in our way.” 

Mr. Macadam evidently thinks she has a soul 
above theaters, so says : 

“ Oh, I suppose you don’t care much for plays. 
Perhaps they bore you ?” 

“ Oh dear, no !” Lottie responds, quickly. 

The idea of a play boring her ! Why, we are only 
too delighted to have the chance of jolting down 
Broadway in the cars, to take up our proud position 
in the balcony. Bored ! There are very few amuse- 
ments that could bore us. Everything is grist to our 
mill! 

Mr. Macadam is silent a few moments after Lot- 
tie’s reply ; then he turns to mother. 

“ Would }^ou allow me to take your daughters to a 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


81 


theater to-morrow night ?” he asks her. “ I am 
afraid it is hut an empty compliment to ask you, for 
I understand you never go out. But if you will 
allow me to take them I shall be so pleased.” 

Mother hesitates, glancing from one to the other, 
and at last consents when our old lady pleads for 
us. 

Then mother begins to question Mr. Macadam. 
I suppose she wants to find out something more 
about him before she feels happy in trusting us with 
him. 

“Are you making a long stay in Hew York ?” she 
asks. 

“ Oh, I live here.” 

“Indeed! I understood, from what Winnie told 
me about your chance meeting with the Athertons, 
that you had not been long in town, and were only 
making a short visit.” 

“Ho; I had been abroad for five years, and had 
seen nothing of any of my old friends during that 
time, as I was constantly traveling.” 

“You must be glad to be settled now. I can 
fancy nothing worse than having no home ties ; but, 
then, I am an old woman and an invalid.” 

Mr. Macadam makes a restless movement. I 
notice he always winces at any allusion to home ties, 
and I wonder why he does so. He answers, quickly : 

“Yes, I am glad to be settled; but I have no 
home ties whatever, so that it really makes no dif- 
ference to me where I am.” 

And then he changes the subject. 

“You are a great worker, are you not? Miss 


82 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


Ten Eyck told me so much about your artistic handi- 
work;” and he leans over mother’s table and ex- 
amines the pretty things upon it, and in the conver- 
sation that ensues the subject of himself and his 
doings is not reverted to. 

Before he goes everything is fixed for the next 
night, and he is hardly out of the house before Lottie 
and I are executing a delighted war-dance over the 
prospect of the morrow’s enjoyment. 

He has won his way into the good graces of every 
one. Our old lady, who has been studying him 
quietly, gives a very decided verdict in his favor ; 
and old Fluff for once shows a glimmering of sense 
by fawning on him and making a fuss with him. 

Next morning, soon after Lottie returns from her 
work, a large box arrives addressed to her. 

The label bears the name of a fashionable florist, 
and is directed in a writing that I would know well 
enough even if it were not for the “ J. M.” in the 
corner. 

Lottie pounces on the box, opens it, and discovers 
quantities of the most exquisite flowers packed 
tightly in cotton wool. After gloating over them 
for a time she turns back to the address. 

Her quick eye lights on the initials. 

“ ‘ J. M.’ ” she exclaims. “ ‘ J. M. !’ Who is 
< j. M.’r 

“ James Macadam,” I say glibly, and try to bring 
her attention back to the flowers ; but Lottie is not 
to be thus lightly disposed of. She looks at it stead- 
ily a moment. 

“I say, Winnie, were not those the initials on the 


A PROUD DISHONOR . 


83 


bouquet you had sent you? The writing seems 
familiar. Have you got the card?” 

“ Of course not,” I say, burying my flushed face 
in the flowers. 44 The idea of keeping such rubbish ! 
Those initials were 4 S. M.,’ I believe.” 

“No, they were 4 J. M.’ I remember distinctly 
saying 4 J. M., Jim,’ ” Lottie returns, positively. 

“ Well, I can’t see that was such a wonderful thing 
to have said,” I respond, crossly. 

“ No ; but Mr. Macadam’s initials are J. M., and 
his name is Jim, and the writing seems so familiar 
that I feel like saying something to him to-night.” 

“Now, Mother!” I cry appealingly, “ is not Lot- 
tie idiotic? Can’t there be. two men with the in- 
itials ‘J. M.’? If she does say ahything to Mr. 
Macadam he will probably be very much insulted ; 
and beside, I am not sure the initials were 4 J. M.’ 
They might just as well have been 4 S. M.’ or 4 T. 
M.’, and she could as easily have said 4 Sim ’ or 4 Tim’ 
as 4 Jim.’ ” 

Lottie is unconvinced, but mother clinches the 
matter by deciding that nothing is to be said to Mr. 
Macadam, and we set ourselves to filling every avail- 
able vase with the sweet flowers. 

I am not altogether sure that I am not a wee bit 
vexed at the flowers being sent to Lottie instead of 
to me. Is this a twinge of jealousy, I wonder ? 


84 


A PROUD DISHONOR . 


CHAPTER VII. 


ABOUT THE FAMILY BOWL. 


INCE THE THEATRE Mr. Macadam has been 



O pretty often to see us. Indeed every few days 
he will drop in for a chat, and we are one and all 
glad to have him come. Fluff quite approves of him, 
and gets up in his lazy way to greet him, and indeed 
seems to know his rap at the door. 

He seems quite to liven us up ; but he is an agree- 
able friend, nothing more. He does not pay me any 
particular attention ; in fact he talks quite as much 
to Lottie as to me ; and perhaps it may be only my 
fancy, but I think I detect in his manner to me a 
something that tells me I am more to him than any 
other woman. 

The other day there was some chance remark 
made about marriage, and our old lady asked Mac- 
adam what he would do with a wife. 

“ I don’t think I shall ever marry,” was his in- 
stant reply. 

How, what did he mean ? If he does not mean to 
marry, why does he come here so often and make so 
much of us all ? Certainly a young man ought to 
be free to call on ladies without having intentions 
wherever he goes ; but after the peculiar circum- 
stances of our meeting, the conversations we have 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


85 


had, and the fact of his coming here as a friend of 
mine, it does look as if he had some ideas beyond 
the ordinary ones of pleasant acquaintance. 

But why does he say so positively that he does not 
intend to marry ? Perhaps he lias not yet made up 
his mind whether he really likes me. I should fancy 
he is a man who would wish to know a woman very 
thoroughly before he took such a serious step as 
binding himself to her for life. 

This may be so, but with one thing and another, 
I am not in a particularly happy frame of mind. 
We have had a good deal to worry us lately, and 
yesterday came the crisis. 

That dividend is at the bottom of it all. 

Six weeks ago, without any intention to be dis- 
honest, I promised it liberally on every side ; and 
when it came in, the other day, we had to parcel it 
out in such driblets that it did nobody any good. I 
meant to do the best, and it seems I did the worst. 

Before mother was up a man came to see her. He 
was brought to me. 

“ Good-morning, Ma’am,” he said. “ I won’t de- 
tain you long ; my business is very simple. I am 
the grocer. The business has been changing hands 
two or three times, lately, and I have just bought it, 
debts and all. I want a little ready money to carry 
on the shop with, and the easiest way to get it is by 
calling in some of the debts. Well, Ma’am, a month 
ago you promised the house a check on account, if 
we would wait. I did not wish to be unreasonable, 
and would have been content with an ordinary sum ; 
but when I got this,” and he searches in his pocket- 


86 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


book for a paper, “ I thought I had better step 
round and see if there was not some little mistake.” 

After a little further search he laid on the table a 
check for twenty-five dollars. 

“ How much more did you expect ?” 

“Well, seventy-five, at least; you see, the bill is a 
hundred and fifty.” 

I thought for a few moments and then answered 
him : 

“ I am really very sorry, but I am afraid we can’t 
let you have any more just now.” 

“ You must let me have more or I shall press for 
it,” the man said, roughly, buttoning up his pocket- 
book. “ I’ve a mind not to take that check at all.” 

“ I hope you will,” I answered, “ and that you will 
give us a little more time, and we will send you more 
as soon as possible.” 

“ Well, I’ll give you two weeks, and if I have not 
received fifty dollars in that time I shall press and 
with that he went. 

How, we have not said one word of this to mother, 
we have no possibility of getting the fifty dollars, 
and what the man will do when they are not forth- 
coming is beyond our ken. t 

We have talked over every available article in our 
possession, to see if we could not raise the money 
and settle it without mother knowing, but we have 
nothing of value left ; most of our nice things dwin- 
dled away long ago. 

Suddenly a thought strikes me. The family bowl ! 
Why did I not think of the family bowl ! 

The family bowl, as we familiarly term it, is a 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


87 


large china punch-bowl as old as the hills, and there 
is an idea among us that it is of great value. In 
these days of china mania the bowl may be worth a 
mine of gold. Why could not Lottie or I take it to 
some china dealer and sell it, and when we come 
home with a lapful of dollars tell mother of the 
trouble, and, beside the clamoring grocer, settle up 
the other debts that worry us, and start free ? What 
a golden vision ! 

I start up from my chair in the den, where I have 
been indulging in the foregoing meditations, stand a 
moment in contemplation of the family bowl, which 
is mounted upon a shelf on the wall, and then call 
Lottie. 

“ Come and help me out with this Italian,” I cry. 

Lottie does not know as much about it as I do, but 
she gathers that I want her for some idea or other, 
so comes skipping along the hall. 

“ Well she says, sitting down in front of me with 
her hands on her knees. 

u Lottie, let’s sell the bowl !” 

She throws up her hands in horror. 

“ Why, what would mother say ? Our great- 
great-grandmother brought it over with her, and all 
the family have been christened in it for gener- 
ations !” 

“ Come, Lottie, don’t talk rubbish. I don’t care 
if the immortal George played skittles with it, or 
the Queen of Sheba gave it as a present to Solomon ! 
If that frightful old thing is worth money, let’s have 
the monejr.” 

“ But— — ” 


88 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


“Nonsense! You are much too practical to go 
in for any sentimental stuff of that sort. Suppose 
we could sell it for five hundred dollars ? Do you 
suppose that mother would care for an old bit of 
china when she realized that we had been in a ter- 
rible strait and had got out of it so gloriousty ? As 
for the christening of our grandmothers, bah ! 
What good does it do us to have the vessel that the 
heads of the family have been dipped in ? Lottie, 
grandmothers are luxuries, and we are too poor to 
indulge in them. You don’t suppose anybody be- 
lieves that we had grandmothers, do you? Why, 
Lottie, we keep boarders ! Was there ever a board- 
ing-house keeper that had not seen better days? 
Believe me we shall be much more unique if we have 
no family relics at all, and I vote for the sale of the 
bowl.” 

Lottie is silent a few moments, and then she 
says : 

“Well, I think you are right, Winnie; only, I 
hate to see every decent thing we possess getting 
sold. Still I suppose it is the thing- to do, and as I 
think I can make a better bargain than you, I’ll 
take it. You are not half sharp enough. The 
dealer would tell you it was rubbish and you would 
believe him; whereas I know nothing whatever 
about china, but I shall tell him the bowl has been in 
the family for generations, and, when he talks 
‘ marks,’ look wise and say nothing.” 

We make a parcel of the bowl and Lottie starts 
off to try her luck. 

How anxiously I watch for her return ! I have 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


89 


had my head out of the window at least fifty times 
before I see her coming, and have made my poor 
mother so nervous that I verily believe that if I 
were not the big woman I am she would box my 
ears. 

When at last I see Lottie, I slip out with the 
old, flimsy harmony excuse, and letting her in 
quietly, follow her into the den, and closing the 
door, wait open-mouthed for the news. To my 
horror the bowl is still in her hand ! 

She sets it down on the table with a bang. 

“ Bother the old thing ! I’d like to break it !” she 
says. 

I look at her in astonishment. Bumping the 
sacred bowl is an act of levity I should never have 
expected from Lottie, but to talk of breaking it is 
rank heresy ! I could almost fancy she had taken 
leave of her senses ! 

I must find out the reason for her strange con- 
duct, so I inquire : 

“ What for ?” 

“ Because it isn’t worth ten cents ! I took it to 
ever so many places, and the people one and all 
laughed at me when I said it was of great value.” 

“Is that really true? Is this thing, then, rub- 
bish ?” I say, as the idea forces itself slowly through 
my unwilling brain that for years we have been giv- 
ing honor to a bit of common delf ; that we have 
grow T n up in a faith which this moment unmasks and 
reveals as a lie, a mockery. 

It is a bitter thought ! 

Against our better judgment we have painfully 


90 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


acquired a taste for this hideous old basin ; have 
schooled ourselves into tolerating its ugliness for the 
sake of its admirable antiquity; and behold, it is 
but an ordinary, commonplace crock ! 

The bowl of our sires has been smashed by some 
clumsy maid and this monstrosity purchased in its 
stead ! 

How those of our friends who understood china 
must have laughed in their sleeves ? How even the 
old basin itself must have chuckled ! 

All my veneration disappears as if by magic, and I 
share heartily in Lottie’s desire for summary ven- 
geance. 

“Hateful, deceiving old Panchin!” I say, apos- 
trophizing the now despised family bowl. “To 
think that you have been given the place of honor — 
you, who are only a cut above a pudding-bowl !” 

My tragic tone is too much for Lottie’s gravity, 
and we indulge in one of those hearty laughs which 
invariably follow the financial crises which are now 
of pretty frequent occurrence. 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


91 


CHAPTER VIII. 


I MEET MES. HAGGEESTONE, 


LOUDS seem to be gathering round us pretty 



V-/ thickly. I fancied I was going to make a good 
thing of this season, and here it is nearly July, and 
never a vestige of an engagement has come my way 
since February. 

That grand commencement was only a flash in the 
pan — the same sort of delusive thing as turning up 
an act, at lvhist, and finding it backed by a deuce 
when you delightedly glance through your hand. 

I have written to several people, and almost inva- 
riably received the same reply — that their lists were 
full for the present, but that should anything unfore- 
seen occur (pigs taking to flying, or something of 
that sort, I suppose) they would be delighted to send 
for me. I went up to Mr. Mertens’, to-day, but he 
was very far from encouraging. 

“ The fact of the matter is this, Miss Ten Eyck,” 
he said ; “ you have no one pushing you, and you 
will find getting on very up-hill work, without help.” 

“ How do you mean ? Have I not studied suffi- 
ciently yet ?” 

“On that score I have not a word to say. I think 
you a charming singer ; but I understand you have 
not made any arrangements with anyone to bring 


92 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


you out. You have simply studied, and think your 
own merits will do the rest for you. Am I right ?” 

“ Perfectly.” 

“ Well, my dear young lady, you are building on 
impossibilities. You cannot do it. Every man con- 
nected with the concert business has a certain num- 
ber of pupils or proteges he is bound to push and em- 
ploy. Outside this ring there is no place for a 
singer, let her be as pleasing as she will. You, my 
dear, are outside. You will get stray engagements 
through your own influence or the illness of some 
other artist who has been engaged to sing, but an 
assured position you will never have. I doubt if 
you could keep yourself with concert singing exclu- 
sively. I consider you a very promising young 
singer, and should advise you to make immediate 
arrangements Avith some one to bring you out.” 

“ That would cost money.” 

“ Undoubtedly.” 

“I am not in a position to pay any.” 

“ ITa\ r e you no friends ?” 

“ None of whom I should like to ask such a favor.” 

“ Then, my dear young lady, speaking to you as 
to a singer in whose career I am interested, I say 
give up the idea of concert work and turn your at- 
tention to light opera.” 

u The stage !” I cry. “ Why, my people would 
never hear of it !” 

“ They will have to, or let you be idle. If you 
had exceptional talent I would not say a Avord ; but 
as you doubtless know for yourself, your talent, 
though of a very high order, is nothing startling. 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


93 


You are a very charming singer, nothing more. In 
concert there are many as good as you ; in opera you 
can outshine them all, for few of these light opera 
singers have any musical education whatever.” 

This was very pleasant hearing, truly. Mr. Mer- 
tens’ words have been ringing in my ears all the 
afternoon, and I have been wondering how I am to 
tell mother and Lottie, who are so hopeful about my 
future. I have hardly said a word to a soul, but sit 
grim and taciturn, wondering whether they would 
ever hear of my going on the stage, and if not, 
whether I shall be able to teach, and earn my salt. 

Mother has not been well all day, and has gone to 
bed quite early. We are all depressed; and though 
we are not one of those cheerful families who de- 
light in communicating their dismal forebodings to 
one another, there is still such a strong bond of 
sympathy between us that when one feels depressed 
there is a cloud on all our spirits. 

Our old lady is the only member of “ our refined 
home circle” at home to-night, and she has made 
herself so completely one of us that we no longer 
regard her as a stranger. 

A ring comes at the door-bell, we hear a man’s 
voice, and then Mary comes in. 

“ Mr. Brown,” she says. 

We happen to know a Mr. Brown, and at once 
conclude that he has dropped in for a little music. 
Lottie raises her head with a welcoming smile, which 
suddenly fades from her face and is replaced by that 
haughty, queenly grace that becomes her so well. 
She rises to her feet and says : 


94 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


“Mr. Brown, I believe?” 

“Yes, Ma’am. Are you Mrs. Ten Eyck ?” 

“No — Miss Ten Eyck; Mrs. Ten Eyck is not well 
this evening.” 

“I’ll call again, then. I want to see Mrs. Ten 
Eyck on business.” 

Lottie and I exchange glances; our old lady 
rises. 

“ Shall I go upstairs ?” she asks. 

“ No,” we say in a breath, “ we will go into the 
den ;” and together w r e conduct our nocturnal 
visitor into the little room and light the gas. 

“My business is with Mrs. Ten E}^ck, young 
ladies,” he says. I am afraid w r e are wasting each 
other’s time.” 

“ But our mother is ill in bed and you could not 
possibly see her,” we say, and go through the little 
formula of what is said to one being said to all. 

“ I am afraid I shall have to wait till I can see 
Mrs. Ten Eyck,” he says, fingering his hat. 

“Well, at least you can tell us the nature of your 
business ?” 

“ Yes, I can do that. It is about Mr. Bobinson.” 

“ The grocer ?” 

“Yes. The two weeks are up and he has not re- 
ceived the fifty dollars.” 

“Yes, we are very sorry, but we found it quite 
impossible to send it.” 

“ In that case I must see your mother,” the man 
says respectfully, but firmly. 

“ What for ?” we ask, looking at each other with 
blanching faces. 


A proud dishonor. 95 

“ I have a paper to give her that I can only deliver 
to herself.” 

“ A paper ! What is it ?” 

“ A summons.” 

There is dead silence. Lottie and I get close to- 
gether and furtively grasp hands. The man turns 
his back and looks at a picture on the wall. 

Lottie is the first to speak, and her voice is half- 
anguished, half-defiant. 

“ You cannot give her that ! It would kill her !” 

The man turns and looks at us. This job is evi- 
dently distasteful to him. 

“ I am very sorry, } 7 oung ladies,” he says, “ but I 
am bound to do my duty.” 

“ Why can you not give it to one of us ?” 

“ Because it is so much waste paper unless given 
to the party it is intended for.” 

Again a silence ; then Lottie says, in a trembling 
voice : 

“ Our mother is really so ill that a shock might 
kill her. Will you not give the paper to us? AVe 
will give you our word to deliver it.” 

He shakes his head. 

“ Oh, don’t refuse,” I plead. “ You can trust us, 
and no one need ever know. She is so ill !” 

He thinks a moment and then takes a paper from 
his pocket. 

a AVell, young ladies, here it is,” he says; “I trust 
you ;” and placing the paper in our hands he bids*us 
a hurried good-night and is gone. 

AYe cannot speak when we are left alone ; we 
stand hand clasped in hand, with averted faces, not 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


daring to look at each other. At last the dread 
thought that is in both hearts finds voice. Lottie 
throws her arms round me, sobbing. 

“ Who is to tell her?” is her cr}^. 

“ Must we ?” I whisper back. 

“We promised,” Lottie answers, rebukingly. 

“ Let us go together,” we say at last ; and forcing 
back the tears that would be so glad to come if we 
would let them, we go to our darling’s bedside, and 
tell her so gently that she hardly realizes the extent 
of our misery ; then we thrust the hateful thing into 
a drawer and try to forget it. 

Next morning I awake with that sense of oppres- 
sion which grief always brings — a feeling that tells 
you before your senses are awake that there is 
trouble abroad. The rosy glamour of dreams is still 
upon you, when like the sharp prick of a dagger 
comes the recollection that drives the mists away 
from the brain, and the whole trouble unrolls itself 
in its blackest, saddest form, and you recognize it 
with horror as your burden, which you must bear 
not for to-day alone, but for years — maybe until you 
lay it down on the shores of the dark river. 

I rise unrefreshed, eat my breakfast in silence, 
and after it take up the paper in an aimless sort of 
way and scan the advertisements. One attracts my 
eye. 

“ A lady of position is anxious to meet with an 
agreeable young lady as companion. One who sings 
preferred.” 

I look at it several times, and without saying a 
word to anyone answer it. 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


9? 


Something must be done ! I can no longer afford 
idleness, and I am agreeable enough when nothing 
occurs to ruffle me, and I can sing. Why should not 
I suit this lady, and get some salary, to be able to 
share with my home ones ? 

A week passes and I get no answer. It is a 
wretched week. Mr. Macadam does not call ; our 
old lady goes away ; and, above all, mother is still 
no better, and obliged to keep her bed. 

It is a very warm afternoon, and I have been sit- 
ting with mother and expending my superfluous en- 
ergies in improvising a mosquito netting for her. 
Poor mother is particularly popular with the flies, 
but, far from appreciating their attentions, she is 
driven nearly wild by them. 

With the aid of various weapons, the most note- 
worthy a paper-knife and a wet towel, Lottie con- 
trived to send quite a number to a cooler world, 
and then went out. Now the wretches have 
a regular wake, and are arriving in myriads to 
honor the obsequies by feasting on the bodies of 
their late brethren. 

I am tired and a trifle out of patience when the 
bell rings loudly, and in a moment Mary comes to 
tell me that a lady wants to see me. 

On the card is written “ Mrs. Ilaggerstone.” 

For a moment I am at a loss to imagine who it 
can be, and then the advertisement flashes through 
my mind and I hurry into the room. 

I see before me a tall, handsome woman, with 
strongly-marked features and dark hair. She has 
eyes that though large and beautiful have in them 


98 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


an expression that is almost sinister. She instinct- 
ively repels me, despite the fascination of her man- 
ner and the rich sweetness of her voice when she 
speaks. 

“ You are Miss Ten Eyck?” she asks. 

I bow an affirmative, and she resumes : 

“ My solicitors forwarded me your reply to my 
advertisement; but as I am particular about the 
young lady I make my companion I thought I 
should prefer coming to see you in your own home, 
to asking you to call on me.” 

“ Yes,” I say, disliking her more every word she 
speaks. 

“ I thought from your note that you would just 
suit me,” she says, and goes on to ask me a thousand 
and one questions — some of them rather impertinent 
ones, I think. 

“ I intend to travel in Europe for some months, 
may be for a year. Can you speak French and Ger- 
man ?” 

“Very little,” I say, dubiously. 

“Ah, perhaps you have not been abroad ? Well, 
if you understand the construction of a language, it 
is very easy to speak it. I think I should enjoy 
showing the foreign cities to an intelligent compan- 
ion. I am very weary of them myself. I intend to 
start in a couple of weeks ; could you be ready ?” 

“ Oh, yes, if I decided to go.” 

“Well, you had better decide at once;” and she 
gives a little mirthless laugh that chills my blood. 
It is strange how repulsive she is to me ! 

I look at her closely before replying. Her expres- 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


99 


sion is ever varying— now melancholy, now defiant 
— but neither into the restless eyes, nor round the 
straight, lipless mouth, comes one sign of gentleness 
or softness ; and yet she is not a stern woman ! She 
looks like one who is at war with the world. 

“Well?” she says, after the pause has become 
longer than her restlessness can brook. 

“ I shall have to consult my mother,” I say, bring- 
ing my thoughts back from their speculative excur- 
sions to the business of the moment. 

“ Is she here ? Can I see her ?” and she rises from 
her seat. 

“ Unfortunately you cannot; she is not at all well 
just now.” 

“ I am sorry, for I hate being unsettled, and would 
prefer to have things arranged at once. What 
salary would you want? Would you be satisfied 
with fifteen hundred dollars a year and expenses ?” 

“ Your offer seems very liberal.” 

“Yes,” she answers, “but I expect a good deal in 
return. My companion must dress well, and that 
takes money.” 

Then she drops business and begins chatting on 
the various topics of the day. She is a very intelli- 
gent woman and a brilliant talker. As she speaks I 
am half-inclined to think my first impression has 
been a wrong one ; but every now and then some 
word, some expression, assures me that I was right 
in attributing to her a coldness and want of sincer- 
ity which would make the post of companion to her 
a very undesirable one. 

At last she takes her leave, and having taken a 


100 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


peep at mother and found her fast asleep, I return to 
the sitting-room and settle down for a good long 
think. 

I am in a dilemma. I feel like a man who has 
spent half his life in praying for some special bless- 
ing, and when one day, to his surprise, his prayer is 
answered, he turns round and spends his remaining 
years in praying to have the special blessing re- 
moved. I have been longing and hoping for the 
chance of making money. I answered the adver- 
tisement because I thought it was a chance for me, 
never expected to have an answer, and now that I 
have, and it is better than I could have hoped for, I 
am ready to go down on my bended knees and pray 
that something may make it impossible for me to 
accept. 

My duty is clearly to give a flowery description 
of Mrs. Haggerstone to mother, and get her to be- 
lieve that I want to go with her ; but somehow I 
don’t feel that I can do so. The big salary even 
does not tempt me, and it seems absurd for me to 
have fifteen hundred dollars a }^ear within my grasp 
and not want it. 

I have not half-time to look round the matter 
when there comes another ring ; but this time it is 
one that I know, and Mr. Macadam is announced. 

“All alone!” he says. “Why, this is pleasant; 
we shall be able to have one of our old chats, 
Winnie.” 

“You won’t think it pleasant when you learn that 
the cause of my being alone is mother’s illness.” 

“Oh, I am so sorry!” he says, and then looks 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


10] 


hard into my face. “ You are not well either, are 
you ?” 

“ Oh, I am all right enough,” I respond in a rather 
dismal voice. 

“ No, but you are not all right, else why don’t 
you smile and look yourself ?” 

“Oh, one can’t always be amiable.” 

“ May be ; but you are not cross to-day — you are 
tired. Come, confess you have been over-exerting 
yourself.” 

“ No, I have not,” I persist, and am silent, feeling 
half-inclined to snub him unmercifully and get rid 
of him. 

There is a pause. I feel that I must either be 
very cross or unburden my mind, so do not speak. 
The silence gets tiresome, and at last I speak 
bluntly : 

“Mr. Macadam, I am worried and cross, to-day. 
I don’t want absolutely to tell you to go, but I don’t 
think you will find me very pleasant company, for I 
am full of bothers and can think of nothing else.” 

He laughs at me. 

“Odd as ever,” he says. “Well, you cross girl, 
I shall not go despite your evident wish to be rid of 
me. I shall stay till your sister or some one comes. 
Joking apart, Winnie, tell me what is the matter. 
Have it out and you’ll feel a different woman ; a 
secret worry is like a bad tooth — much better out.” 

I laugh with him, and the influence he has over 
me exerts itself with its usual power, and in a. few 
seconds I turn a more agreeable face to him and 
say, half-dolefully : 


102 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


“Well, as you have elected to stay I will try and 
get better-tempered.” 

“ And about the trouble — won’t you tell it me ?” 

“ Perhaps.” 

“Well, now for it, Winnie.” 

He draws his chair nearer to mine and leans on 
the little table that is between us. Mrs. Hagger- 
stone’s card is upon it, and he plays idly with it as 
he watches my face and waits for my story. Acci- 
dentally the card falls from his fingers to the floor. 
He stomps to pick it up, and in doing so glances at 
it. He utters a strange cry, and drops the card as 
quickly as if it burned him. 

“ What’s the matter ?” I ask. 

“Nothing,” he answers, in an altered voice. 
“ Nothing, only that name reminds me of someone ;” 
and after a slight pause he adds, “ but you have not 
told me your trouble yet ?” 

Thus adjured, I tell him of the discouragement I 
have had from Mr. Mertens, and of my determina- 
tion to find something to do, and at last touch lightly 
on my idea of becoming a companion. 

He rises and walks up and down the room, and at 
last comes back to me and looks gravely in my 
face. 

“Is it necessary for you to 'work, Winnie?” he 
asks. 

“Imperative,” I answer. “This is no longer a 
house that can support one of its daughters in idle- 
ness.” 

He again paces the room, as though in deep, anx- 
ious thought. What can disturb him so ? 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


103 


After a few moments he comes and leans on my 
chair. 

“ Have you any plans ?” he asks. 

“ Nothing definite. I saw an advertisement for a 
musical companion, answered it, and the lady has 
just been here.” 

He snatches up the card. 

“ Is this her name ?” he asks. 

“ Yes,” I respond, surprised at his manner. 

“ Then you shall not go to her !” he says, deci- 
dedly. 

“And why?” I ask, with some haughtiness. I 
cannot see why he should control me in this manner. 

For a moment he does not reply ; then he says, 
with an attempt to pass the matter off lightly : 

“ Oh, you must not think of going to anyone with 
such an unlucky name.” 

“ Unlucky perhaps to you, but why should it be 
tome? You are absurd!” 

“Winnie, you must not go to that woman !” 

“ Anyone would fancy you knew her,” I retort, 
“and had taken the same dislike to her that I have.” 

“You don’t like her, then?” he says, a curious 
smile breaking over his face. 

“ Like her ? No ! I have taken the most unrea- 
soning dislike to her. I am sure I should grow to 
hate her if I saw her often. It was this very feeling 
that made me appear so gloomy when you came in. 
I fear the going to her is inevitable, and I dread it.” 

“ Why should it be inevitable ?” 

“ She offered such a liberal salary.” 

“ Pshaw ! Happiness is to be considered before 


104 


A PRO UD DISHONOR 


salary. I am sure you would be unhappy with her. 
You dislike her yourself. Should you not obey that 
instinct which invariably repels a good woman from 
a bad one, and avoid her?” 

“You have a reason for being prejudiced against 
her.” 

“I am not prejudiced. I simply believe that 
pure, innocent creatures like yourself are provided 
by the Creator with an instinct which warns them 
against persons that would be hurtful to them ; and 
I ask you now, Winnie, to obey your instinct.” 

“ Would you be so earnest if the lady’s name was 
not Haggerstone ?” I persist. 

“ I hope so.” 

“ Then you have some unpleasant associations con- 
nected with the name.” 

“ My bitterest enemy was called by it, and I hate 
its very sound ! Don’t remind me of it, Winnie.” 

His tone is low and fierce, but not fiercer than his 
face. No kind, genial expression is there now, but 
every line, every feature, shows such intense anger 
that I feel I would rather face a lion in the desert 
than Macadam when he is angry. 

He paces the room hurriedly, and then, dropping 
into a seat, covers his face with his hands and ap- 
pears to be thinking deeply. 

I wait awhile and then get rather fidgety. 

“ Don’t think about it if it pains you,” I venture 
at last. 

He looks up, smiles, and comes toward me. 

“ I can never think of anything that is not happy 
when I look at you, Winnie,” he says. “I wish 1 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


105 


could keep you with me always. Life would be all 
sunshine, then !” 

I make no reply. What can I say? A glad 
thought wells up in my heart that perhaps this is 
the moment I so dread and yet so ardently long for. 
I wait with downcast head and fluttering heart for 
his next words. 

He lays his hand on my shoulder, and I, looking 
up, meet his eyes fixed on my face with a strange 
intensity that frightens me. I rise from my seat, 
meditating flight, but ere I can take the first step he 
has me in his arms and is pressing his lips to mine. 

He releases me as suddenly, puts me back in my 
chair, and taking two strides across the room stands 
intently examining a sketch on the walls, and I hear 
him whistling under his breath. 

I look out of the window, and taking up mother’s 
fan try to cool my burning cheeks ; but my heart 
still flutters painfully, and I feel that we are a very 
guilty -looking couple, and that if Lottie should come 
back at this juncture she would take in the situation 
at a glance. 

I wait in delightful anticipation for his next words. 
They come a i last. 

“ What a pretty sketch that is.” 

His tone is most prosaic, and coming back to his 
seat, he begins chatting as quietly as if nothing had 
happened. 

I am not blessed with such complete self-control. 
I cannot speak to him, I cannot look at him, and 
each time his eyes rest on me I feel my face crim- 
soning painfully. 


106 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


“ Don’t look so reproachful,” he says at last, when 
he realizes how farcical are his attempts at conversa- 
tion. “I was mad just now! Will you forgive 
me ?” 

A sharp pain runs through me at his words. 
What can he mean? 

“ Forgive me, Winnie ! I don’t deserve that you 
should, but be merciful. There is not a woman in 
the world in whom I am as interested as in you, and 
it would grieve me intensely to think I had offended 
you past forgiveness when I want you to feel for me 
the deep, true friendship I have for you. Yes, 
Winnie, I want to be your friend in the best sense 
of the word; a man on whom you can rely; a 
brother, who will do more for you than ever brother 
did for sister. If you will only pardon my indiscre- 
tion and trust me you will make me supremely 
happy, and believe me I will never transgress 
again.” 

Every word has cut me like a knife. He asks to 
be a friend to me, when for months past he has been 
teaching me to look on him as a lover! He 
promises never again to offer a caress, and shows 
me clearly that he meant nothing more than to 
insult me ! How dare he trifle thus with me ! 

I rise from my seat to order him to leave the 
house, but hastily restrain my passion lest he read 
the true state of my feelings in it and remembers 
how silently I sat until his words convinced me that 
I had mistaken his meaning. 

It is too late now to rebuke him as he deserves, 
so I merely move to leave the room, saying, coldly : 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


107 


“ If you will excuse me I think I will go to my 
mother ; she may be awake and wanting me.” 

I have angered you,” he says, lamely. 

“You have surprised me,” I say, sweeping past 
him. 

“ Miss Ten Eyck,” he says, “ I offer you the most 
humble apologies ; pray pardon my un gentlemanly 
conduct !” 

“Don’t mention the matter further,” I reply, 
laying my hand on the door-knob. 

He will not let me pass out. 

“ You must hear me before }^ou go,” he says. “ I 
have something of importance to say to you ; and 
though I deserve that you should send me away 
from you, yet I cannot let you do so at this moment, 
when your mother is ill, and you two poor, unpro- 
tected girls are in such sore need of friends.” 

“I think we are much better off without such 
friendship as yours.” 

“ Be as cutting as you will — I deserve it all ; but 
you must hear me. I have the most urgent reasons 
for begging you to sit down at once and write a 
note to Mrs. Haggerstone declining her offer ; and 
my reasons are so urgent that, if you refuse, I shall 
feel bound to lay the matter before your mother.” 

“ My mother is not well enough to be troubled, 
and if she were I don’t think she would raise any 
serious objections to my going abroad with an agree- 
able lady.” 

“But suppose,” he urges, “that Mrs. Haggerstone 
were neither agreeable nor a lady ? Suppose that 
you found your travels consisted in making straight 


108 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


for Monaco, and that, once there, your duties were 
simply to throw a semblance of respectability over 
her daily visits to the gaming-table ? Suppose that 
one day, after your face had become to all the visit- 
ors that of an habitue, madam staked her all, lost, 
and made away with herself — where would you. be ? 
Y ou might have difficulty in exonerating yourself ; 
you would be penniless and friendless ; and if you 
succeeded in getting other employment, you would 
be in constant fear of meeting someone that had seen 
you at the tables.’’ 

“ So graphic a picture must have been drawn from 
life,” I say. “ What do you know of Mrs. Hagger- 
stone ?” 

“This — that at Monaco I have seen just such a 
woman as you describe, and her name was Hagger- 
stone. Now will you write, or must I get your 
mother’s permission to investigate this lady’s his- 
tory ?” 

I pause, vexed to find that I must agree with him. 

“ I am much obliged to you for your warning,” I 
say at last. “ I will think it over, and most proba- 
bly decline. Now you really must excuse me and 
opening the door I usher him out. 

I decline Mrs. Haggerstone’s offer, but I never 
breathe a word to Lottie of what has taken place. 


A PliOUD DISHONOR . 


109 


CHAPTER IX. 

I BEGIN MY PROFESSIONAL CAREER. 

I SUPPOSE the world would take me for a 
Becky Sharp if I confessed how completely this 
profession of friendship has hurt me. I have not 
been scheming to be Mr. Macadam’s wife, but from 
the first moment of meeting I was strongly attracted 
to him ; and when his visits increased, and I saw 
from liis manner that he thought a great deal of me, 
I allowed myself to drift into loving him in that 
happy, comfortable way that people have when 
things go smoothly and orange-blossoms and bride- 
cake loom gayly in the future. 

How suddenly he comes to me and asks me for my 
friendship ! He had it, and he knew he had it. 

I do not understand his motives, nor do I think 
for a moment that they are unworthy ones, but 
there is ho disguising the fact that either I have 
been willfully deceiving myself or he has not been 
behaving as he should do. The Platonic friendship 
idea is all nonsense — preposterous and ridiculous 
nonsense; and though he chose to construe my 
silence into an acceptance, I must find some means 
of rendering it totally impossible. 

Though I love him, my common sense tells me 
that he is not altogether blameless ; that as a man 


110 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


of the world he ought to know that unless he in- 
tended to make me his wife he had no business to 
come so often to the house, or be so attentive to me 
as he has been. 

I am very unhappy, very sore about it; and 
as time goes on, and I realize to the full the 
dampening that has fallen on my life, I determine 
to occupy myself so that I will have no time to 
think of my pain ; for were it not for the wounded 
pride which keeps my heartache in subservience I 
should be a very unhappy woman, in these days 
when I am bearing the weight of the first sorrow I 
have kept from mother. 

Two or three weeks go by, our difficulties press 
very heavily upon us, and at each fresh trouble I 
say to myself, “ Oh if I were only earning money !” 

I pray for an opportunity, and at last it comes. 

The morning’s letters are always brought into 
mother’s room for her to sort and distribute. One 
morning Mary comes in as usual with a package in 
her hand. I lie half-awake listening to hear if there 
is one for me, and yet hoping that there may not 
be, so that I may indulge in the pernicious sweet- 
ness of a snooze after I have been called. 

“ Put those outside,” mother says. 

“Any for Miss Winnie?” Mary asks. 

“Yes, Mary, but I’ll keep it till she gets up. 
She’ll go to sleep again if you give it to her.” 

Mary goes out; but as I don’t feel particularly 
interested, and I am particularly sleepy, I don’t 
make any movement and proceed to take the cov- 
eted nap. 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


Ill 


Lottie wakes me — Lottie fully dressed, and wav- 
ing a letter in her hand. 

“Winnie!” she cries, shaking me. 

“All right!” I answer, testily. “I shan’t be a 
minute dressing; I’ll be up as soon as breakfast 
is.” 

“Look here, Winnie! Wake up and read this 
letter !” 

I open a second eye, and see mother sitting bolt 
upright in bed and gazing anxiously at me. I real- 
ize that something has happened in connection with 
my letter, so I turn out^ snatch it from Lottie, and 
read; 

. Dear Miss Ten Eyck ; — Since I last saw you I 
have not forgotten you, and have tried on several 
occasions to get engagements for you ; but as I told 
you, the thing is very uncertain unless you have 
some one interested in you. Hitherto I have been 
unsuccessful, but now I think I can offer you some- 
thing that it will be to your advantage to take. A 
friend of mine, who manages a light opera company 
during the season, is organizing a concert company 
to make a tour through Canada. It will be quite a 
nice engagement, for he has prevailed upon his 
prima donna and baritone to go with him, and I 
would advise your accepting it, as, if he likes you, 
he will in all probability engage you for his opera 
company next season to play small parts and under- 
study, and it will give you an opening in the field 
to which your talents are best suited. The com- 
pany starts in eight days, and the salary offered is 
fifty dollars per week. If this suits you, kindly be 
at Clarendon Hall at one o’clock p. m. to rehearse 
the Widow in “Elijah.” By the way, I stated to 
Mr. Herzog that you were well up in oratorio work, 


112 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


as he intends giving then! in all the towns that have 
singing societies. 

Wishing you the best of luck, 

Your friend, 

F. Chandler Mertens. 

I simply gasp “ Oh, Mother, is he not good !” and 
flying to her, smother her in kisses. 

“ Do you want to accept it ?” she asks. 

“ Why, yes, Mother !” 

“ Are you, then, so anxious to leave home ?” 

“ Oh no, no, Mother ! But think what I can do 
with fifty dollars a week. Why, darling, I can send 
home enough to pay all the bills and make you as 
happy as the day is long ! I am going to be the 
man of the family, and go out into the world to 
fight for the home ones.” 

“ Oh, Winnie, you must not go ! Fancy your being 
away for months !” 

And then, like the silly women we are, we cling 
together and vow nothing shall separate us, and 
then, as soon as our eyes are dry, thank Heaven for 
the mercy vouchsafed us and gratefully accept the 
blessing that comes so opportune^. 

As soon as breakfast is over I rush to the den to 
look over the “ Widow,” and then together, Lottie 
and I go down to Clarendon Hall. 

Mr. Herzog is charming to me, and the rehearsal 
goes off so well that I am surprised at myself ; then 
I have a long chat with my new manager, and find, 
to my delight, that Mr. Mertens has spoken so well 
of me that Mr. Herzog asks to have the refusal of 
my services for next season, and finally the contract 


A PROUD DISHONOR . 


113 


is signed that in eight days is to make me a bread- 
winner, and a lonely wanderer among a world of 
wanderers. 

We go home silent and sad at the prospect of the 
parting which is- now so near, and yet Lottie is as 
pleased as I am that we have something certain to 
depend on for our darling. 

The days pass on ; and what days ! Every known 
relative, and lots that we never knew we had, de- 
scend upon us and upbraid mother for allowing me 
to go on a tour, and, when they he^r of the opera 
business that is to follo'w, snub me for a forward 
minx. Some regard singers as lost souls, and con- 
demn the entire tribe of professionals as vampires 
who suck men’s blood (through their pocket-books, I 
presume) and live on champagne and flowers. 

The idea of mother allowing her daughter — a Ten 
Eyck — to go among such a class of people ! 

They all hold up their hands in holy horror; but 
I notice that none of them offer me fifty dollars a 
week to stay at home, though they are all well off and 
know perfectly the circumstances that make work a 
necessity to me. 

It only adds to the general discomfort which at- 
tends the last few days of my life at home ; and 
perhaps, after all, it serves its purpose in drawing 
my attention away from the terrible parting before us. 
How am I going to leave that being who has been 
mother, sister, friend, companion, all combined ! 

We have only been parted for a few hours before ; 
I have now to look forward to a parting of months, 
which seem like an eternity. I can see how deeply 


114 


A PROUD DISHONOR . 


mother feels it ; and yet, with that goodness &nd 
sweet patience which is the very essence of her be- 
ing, she crushes down the longing love which needs 
me near her and looks forward to the great future 
which her resignation of me has put within my 
grasp. 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


115 


CHAPTEE X. 

GOOD-BY ! 

I T IS A LOVELY afternoon, and I am walking 
along Broadway with a heavy heart. I have 
come from the Mystic Flats on Thirty-ninth Street, 
where Mr. Herzog has his office, and where I had 
been to get final instructions for the start, and it 
has just come home to me with crushing force that 
I am -really going away from home. 

I stroll along toward the Park, indulging in sad 
reflections. I have been so busy these last few days 
that I have not had time to realize that all this 
bustle means that I am going to leave mother and 
Lottie, and everything I cafe for, to lead a new life 
among new people. How am I to leave mother ? 
And yet how can I stay and see her, with her weak 
health, constantly worried and anxious about the 
money that I have not the courage to go and earn 
for her? Were I a boy I should have to go, and 
were mother in my place she would never hesitate 
to make any sacrifice that would benefit her chil- 
dren. 

I am a coward — a weak, miserable coward ; but 
how can I leave her when she is all — everything — 
to me? If I could only take her with me I would 
brave anything. But alone ! To be days and weeks 


116 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


without seeing her dear, kind face, or hearing her 
low, sweet voice; to have no one to counsel me, no 
one to guide me ! It seems as if I could not bear it, 
and yet I must. 

I walk on, heeding nothing but my own thoughts, 
till I am roused by someone standing before me and 
barring my passage. I look up. It is Mr. Mac- 
adam. 

“Why, Winnie!” he says, as cheerfully as though 
our last meeting had been of the most ordinary 
character, “how grave you look! What are you 
doing here ?” 

“ I have just come from Mr. Herzog’s office,” I 
say. 

“ Indeed ! And who may Mr. Herzog be ?” 

“ My manager, of course,” I say unthinkingly, too 
vexed at his lightness to remember that I do not 
want him to know anything of my movements. 

He stares at me, and then with that air of author- 
ity which he always assumes, and which I am 
powerless to resist, says : 

“I am not any nearer understanding you nov r . 
We’ll turn into the Park, and then you shall explain 
yourself.” 

“ I am in a hurry !” I expostulate. 

“ Well, then, I will ride home with you ; but you 
are not going to escape until I know everything.” 

We walk silently into the Park, and down the 
path under the bridge that leads to the drive. I am 
vexed with myself for having spoken to him, but 
angrier still that I am allowing him to drift into his 
old, friendly manner. I wish I had passed him by 


A PRO Tin DISHONOR. 


m 


with some commonplaces, and maintain an obstinate 
silence, hoping that I may be able to divert his 
thoughts from the subject in hand and get away 
with a few remarks about the weather. 

He turns aside into a less frequented walk. 

“ How, Winnie,” he says, “ tell me all about it.” 

“ There is nothing to tell. I have been making 
arrangements about singingat some concerts.” 

“ Oh, I am delighted ! When do they begin ?” 

“ In a day or two.” 

“Well, I will be there; and do not get yourself 
any flowers for the occasion.” 

“You are very kind,” I stutter, “but I am afraid 
you cannot be there. The concert is not in Hew 
York.” 

“ Ho ? Where, then ?” 

“ In Montreal.” 

“Well, that is rather far; but you may count on 
me for the next.” 

I begin rather to enjoy mystifying him. 

“The next one is even farther. I sing three 
times in Montreal ; and then, I believe, go on to 
Hova Scotia.” 

“ Why, you are going to have a trip ! When do 
you sing in Hew York ?” 

“ If I am lucky enough to please my manager I 
shan’t see Hew York, again, until next May.” 

I look up in his face as I speak, and watch his ex- 
pression change from interest to astonishment, and 
then to pain. 

“ Winnie !” he says, speaking quickly, “ I do not 
understand. Tell me how long you will be away?” 


118 


A PROUD DISHONOR . 


“ The whole winter, if they like me.” 

A light dawns upon him — he grasps the situation. 

“ You are going on a tour?” he demands, breath- 
lessly. 

“ Yes.” 

There is silence between us, and then I say, half- 
apologetically : 

“ I told you the last time I saw you that I must 
do something, and I am going to do this.” 

“ Oh, Winnie !” he says ; and his tone is so full of 
pain that I dare not look at him. 

An angry feeling rises in my heart. Why does 
this man stand sighing, and evidently overcome at 
my going away, when it lies in his power to prevent 
it ? I neither understand nor care for this friend- 
ship, which is so like love and yet so unlike it ! 

“ Winnie,” he says at last, laying his hand on my 
arm, “ this must not be.” 

“ It must be, and it is,” I respond coldly, shaking 
off his hand. 

“ Ho, indeed. If you think the matter seriously 
over you will give it up. Fame is all very well, but 
not when, to gain it, you have to travel round the 
country in company with a set of people who are 
st angers to you, and who are certain to be very un- 
desirable companions for a woman of refinement. 
You cannot tell me that you like the idea.” 

“ I don’t pretend to ; but I need money, and I 
mean to earn it.” 

“ And you would risk everything for a miserable 
pittance hardly enough to keep body and soul to- 
gether. You will become a Bohemian, traveling 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


119 


about in the company of questionable women and 
vulgar men, and put yourself outside the circle to 
which you belong! What do your friends say? 
Why does your mother allow you to sacrifice your- 
self for mere money-getting ?” 

“ It certainly does seem absurd to sacrifice one’s 
self for the poor satisfaction of having food to eat 
and clothes to wear.” 

“ What do you mean ?” he says. * 

“Oh, you know well enough,” I say, savagely. 
“ Only, you are like the rest of the world, ready to 
condemn everything you don’t understand. I wish 
I had not seen you ! I was wretched enough before. 
You must have been blind if you did not see how 
things were going at home ; and because I will not 
sit quietly down and see my mother being deprived 
of everything but actual necessaries, and my sister 
killing herself with work, you join in the general 
chorus, call me a wicked, depraved girl, and predict 
my final destruction^because I dare to do the one 
thing of which I am capable, and throw in my lot 
with people who, if not all as refined as 6 the people 
of my own circle,’ are certainly quite as honorable, 
and more kindly !” 

“ Winnie !” he cries, “ spare me !” 

“Then, too,” I go on, “you are pleased to talk of 
the 4 miserable pittance ’ for which I am forfeiting 
the right to the acquaintance of the ‘ people of my 
circle.’ Allow me to tell you that I shall receive 
enough to keep myself in the greatest comfort, even 
after I have sent half my weekly earnings home to 
my mother.” 


120 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


“But,” he says, “you might ” 

“ Oh, I know,” I interrupt. “ I might find more 
ladylike employment.” 

“ You wrong me,” he says; “I was not going to 
suggest anything of the sort. My regret is that 
you should be placed in such a false position.” 

“ Of course we don’t like the idea,” I say, soften- 
ing. “ The separation will be dreadful, but all right 
thinkers agree that I am doing the best thing in 
trying to make my way for myself. I don’t suppose 
anyone will ‘ cut ’ me for it — unless, indeed, you do.” 

“ You are unnecessarily severe,” he says, coldly. 
“ If I could prevent your going, I would ; but not 
having the power to do so, I suppose I have no right 
to criticize.” 

“ I suppose not,” I say, sharply. 

The flicker of a smile comes into his eyes. 

“Well, don’t let’s quarrel about it. If you must 
go, you must ; but it shall not be for an hour longer 
than I can help it.” 

“ How can you prevent it ?” I ask. 

“ When I can tell you, I will.” 

He gives me a glance of such deep meaning that 
I wonder the more why he does not speak his mind 
boldly. 

There is a pause. We walk on in silence. The 
sun is shining hotly on us, but no sunlight could warm 
the cold weight of pain that lies so heavily on my 
heart. My thoughts are full of the partings that are 
before me— first with mother, then with Lottie, and 
last with Jim Macadam. As these thoughts crowd 
upon my brain I realize that I am now parting with 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


121 


him ; that this moment is the one I so dread ; that 
in a few more minutes I shall stretch out my hand 
and say good-by as calmly and quietly as though the 
word did not cut me like a jagged-edged knife; and 
then I shall turn away and see him no more for 
months, perhaps forever. 

I would give half my life for the hours to stand 
still, for the parting to be put olf only for one day, 
if we could but be together a short while longer ; 
but, womanlike, I hurry on the moment I long to 
delay. 

“ As I start so soon, I suppose I shall not see you 
again before I- leave/’ I say, with all the fortitude I 
can- muster. 

“ Don’t, don’t,” he says ; and for a moment we 
stand gazing in each other’s eyes, and each reading in 
the other’s face the pain that words dare not express. 

“ Winnie !” he says, “ I cannot let }mu go ; and yet 
— and yet — I dare not ask you to stay.” 

I do not speak, but I read in his eyes a trouble 
deeper than my own. Am I at last to understand him? 

Then he speaks again. 

“ I cannot let you go ! Oh, Winnie, you must 
have seen how much I thought of you, my sweet lit- 
tle friend ; you must know how terrible it is to lose 
you ; but you cannot know what I feel when I 
would give my life to have you stay and dare not 
ask you !” 

Call me immodest, unwomanly, what you will, but 
I cannot restrain myself from looking in his face and 
asking him, simply : 

“ Why not ?” 


122 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


He starts, his face flushes, and he answers, hur- 
riedly : 

“ Money ; position ; lots of things, child, that you 
cannot understand.” 

Then my anger and injured pride overcome me. 

“ If,” I say, fiercely, “ I am able to understand 
what you think of me, I am also able to understand 
the explanation a man of honor should give.” 

“ You are right,” he says, sadly; “but I have no 
explanation to give.” 

1 bow, and without another word walk away ; but 
he follows and seizes my hand. 

“Winnie!” he cries, “don’t let us part in anger. 
It is bad enough that we must part. Some day you 
shall know all, and until then won’t you have faith 
in me? Won’t you trust me, and let me be the 
friend I tried to be ? Give me one word of comfort 
before we part ! Tell me that you forgive ; and oh, 
Winnie, tell me — do you love me?” 

“ When you have the right to ask me will be time 
enough for me to reply,” I say, quickly, not giving 
myself time to think, lest his pleading voice should 
melt me and I should say words that I would ever 
after repent. 

“ Tell me/’ he urges ; “ but I know you do !” 

“ If you know, why do you ask?” I say, bitterly. 
“ It is rather I who should say, Why did you make 
me do so ?” 

There is a long pause, and then he says : 

“ I have been wrong — very wrong.” 

I turn away, and without another word leave him 
and make my way homeward. 


A PROUD DISHONOR . 


123 


For me the bitterness of death would be nothing 
to the pain and humiliation I am suffering now. 
This man, whom I have allowed myself to love, has 
avowed his love for me, but in the same breath con- 
fessed his inability to make me his wife. This is 
the end of my dream of happiness ! 

It is over! With the closing of this day I will 
close my heart to thoughts of love. I will never 
nurse my grief, but seize it by thb throat anti stran- 
gle out its miserable life. 

Hot another sigh shall Jim Macadam wring from 
me. 


1 u 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


CHAPTER XI. 


MY PROFESSIONAL TOUR. 


OW I DESPISE traveling! How I hate 



1 1 being whirled about all over the country, 
with no home but where your trunk is, and no com- 
fort anywhere ! 

After having been so petted and spoiled at home, 
I find this nomadic life very trying, and my health, 
temper and spirits all suffer from it. 

I ought to be very happy, for my companions are 
kindness itself to me, and very lovely people ; and I 
am getting along so well that I have already signed 
for next season. I get my salary as regularly as my 
encores, and I am now sufficiently initiated to know 
that this is quite an unusual thing in a summer en- 
gagement. 

I know I am wrong to be discontented, but yet I 
am not happy ; my heart is sore and aching. I am 
battling with my first real grief, and battling alone. 
'When I reached home after parting with Macadam, 
the sadness of leaving mother and Lottie overmas- 
tered every other feeling ; and they were already so 
unhappy, it would have been wicked of me to let 
them know that I was leaving with a heavy trouble 
weighing on me which nothing could lighten. 

Even now I cannot think of the parting with 
them. I have been away nearly six weeks, and yet 


A PROUD DISHONOR . 


125 


the moment I think of it fresh tears rise to my eyes. 
How I have cried since I have been away ! It is 
rubbish to say that crying spoils the voice. I have 
cried the better part of every night and day, and 
my voice never was clearer. 

Whenever I sleep I imagine myself at home. 
Once more dear mother’s arms are around me, and 
I feel her hot tears falling on my face' as she scrbs 
her good-by. I see Lottie’s sad face as she takes me 
to the depot ; and I feel again the utter desolation 
that came over me as I kissed her for the last time, 
and the train rolled slowly out of the station ; then 
I awake with a sob and cry on till morning. 

Life for me has come to a standstill ; I have no 
hope-, no happiness. I suppose if I go on working I 
shall make money, and that is all I ought to care 
about ; but this pursuit of wealth will debar me 
from home love, and that other nearer and dearer 
feeling for which I had dared to cherish a longing. 

We are in Quebec. Everyone has said to me : * 

“ Oh, you will enjoy Quebec ; it is such a dear, 
quaint old place.” 

How that I am here, I find myself as far from en- 
joyment as ever. 

I stand drumming on the pane of my window at 
the hotel, too inert to go out, too unhappy to stay 
in. At last a bright thought strikes me. I will go 
to the hall and see if there are any letters for me. 
I had a letter from mother, yesterday, so I really 
have no reason to expect an}^ ; but still there is al- 
ways a hope, and as long as the post is in existence, 
so long shall we look for news. 


126 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


I put on my hat and am soon at the hall. Yes, 
there is a letter for me. As it is put into my hands 
I recognize a certain bold writing, and with a beat- 
ing heart realize that it is from Jim Macadam. 

“ How dare he write to me !” is my thought, as I 
turn away and with trembling hands open my letter. 
It runs thus : 

Dear Miss Ten Eyck : — I begged your mother to 
give me your address, as I wanted to write and ask 
you to let me hear from you sometimes, and to beg 
you, if you are in any trouble, to rety on the assist- 
ance of Yours, sincerely, 

James Macadam. 

I gaze at the letter in amazement. How dare he 
write to me ! And, having written, how dare he in- 
sult me with his platitudes ! 

A fury against him rises in my heart — a fury that 
frightens me. I could raise up my voice and call 
down the vengeance of Heaven on this man who has 
made all sunshine die out of my life, and yet dares 
to treat the matter as lightly as if it did not exist. 

He sought me, wooed me, made me love him, and 
then in a few commonplace words asked for friend- 
ship. How I hate him ! Oh, God ! that I could 
make him suffer what I am suffering ! Why should 
I not curse him ? God, who protects the weak, 
would hear me and punish him. 

Ho! Ho! 

Curse him ? Ask God to punish one whom I still 
love better than my life ? Am I possessed by an 
evil spirit that prompts me to this wickedness ? 

I start on, seeing nothing, hearing nothing — walk- 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


m 


ing on and on, in my passionate desire to quell the 
misery within me. Suddenly I become conscious 
that I am passing through a church-yard. I start 
and turn back ; this holy ground is no place for me 
in such a mood; but yet I dare not, will not, turn. 
I feel as if I were being pursued by an evil demon, 
and that I must still flee from it. 

I pass through the grave-yard in front of the 
church and out at the gate beyond, and crossing the 
road before me, lean on an iron railing, and find 
myself at the top of a high hill, with Nature stretch- 
ing out before me in all the glory of her summer 
beauty. 

My passion has been dying out moment by mo- 
ment. It seems as if the mere passing through 
God’s acre had purified me and brought holier 
thoughts to my mind, and as ’I drink in the beauty 
of the scene before me I become calmer. What has 
been, and what is, is God’s will; and who am I, that 
I should dare to be discontented with my lot and re- 
bel against One whose knowledge is so far above 
mine ! 

Humbled and contrite, I turn back into the 
church-yard and wend my way into the little church, 
which is open, and falling on my knees, I pray 
earnestly for guardianship and guidance. 

Comforted, I leave the church, and as I step out 
from the porch my eye falls on the crumpled letter 
which I still hold in my hand ! 

Opening it, I read it again. But what sudden 
change is this? Where is the coldness, where the 
indifference, I saw before ? I read between the 


128 


A PROW DISHONOR. 


lines, this time, and find a fresh meaning in every 
word. For some reason that I cannot yet make 
clear to myself he cannot be my lover, but he will 
not iose sight of me. He regrets the hasty words 
spoken that day, and wishes to assure me that if I 
will but pardon him he will not transgress again. 

His intentions are well meant, but he asks an im- 
possibility. 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


129 


CHAPTER XII. 

“he shall feed his flock.” 

E HAYE been quite a trip through JSTova 



V V Scotia, to Halifax, St. John’s, Charlotte, and 
Heaven knows where. I get confused with all this 
traveling and lose track of the towns we pass 
through ; but the tour is drawing to a close, and we 
have gone from Montreal to Toronto, from Toronto 
to Hamilton, and from thence back to Buffalo, from 
where we are to work our way round the Lake to 
Detroit and Chicago, where we disband, to reas- 
semble for the opera rehearsals in two weeks. 

As the train steams into Buffalo I have a pleasant 
feeling that I am going to have a very happy time, 
which increases as we reach the cozy German hotel 
at which our ’cellist and his pretty little wife have 
secured rooms for me. Connecting this feeling, as 
I do every pleasant thought that comes to me, with 
home, I hurry off to the music hall to see if there 
are any letters for me. 

I enter at the stage door at the side of the big, 
gaunt building, and having received and read my 
letters, stroll into the hall, to see what sort of a 
place we are going to sing in. 

It is an immensely large building, with a stage 


130 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


and platform combined, so that it can be used either 
for concert or opera. Its size appalls me. It looks 
as big as the Academy of Music, only longer, and a 
regiment could maneuver on the stage with ease. 

We are giving a week of oratorio, and commence 
with the “ Messiah.” Remembering the trying 
nature of my great solo, “ O, Thou that tellest,” and 
that my voice is not over-powerful. I think I will 
run it over and see how it sounds. 

The acoustics prove good, and finding it easy to 
sing, I drop down on a roll of carpet which has been 
left on the stage and begin my favorite, “ He shall 
feed Ilis flock.’ 5 

The prayerful truthfulness of that melody always 
fills me with the highest and holiest feelings, carries 
me away with it, and makes me wish so ardently 
that my soul were as grand and simple as those 
wondrous, massive chords, that I can rarely restrain 
my tears. To-day, as I sit singing in that vast, 
lonely place, my voice rings back to me with such a 
depth of solemnity in it that I am awed by my own 
singing, and my whole soul gushes forth in prayer 
to Him to whom the secrets of all hearts are open, 
that He will help me stifle my longings and give me 
peace. 

Suddenly a hand is laid on my shoulder and a 
voice says : 

“ Winnie, don’t sing like that ! I cannot bear it.” 

It is J ames Macadam ! 

“ What brings you here?” I cry, springing to my 
feet, and blushing guiltily at being found thinking of 
him. 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


131 


“I was passing the hall, and stopped to ask if 
they could give me your address.” 

“What brings you to Buffalo?” I persist, my 
voice husky with the emotion I try so hard to con- 
ceal. 

I dare not look at him ; I can hardly speak for, 
the tempest of joy the sight of him has roused within 
me. 

“I wanted so to see you, Winnie,” he says. “I 
wanted to know if you were well, if you were happy. 
I waited and waited for an answer to my note, and 
when none came I went to your mother for your 
route, and took the first train to this town.” 

I am perfectly aware that if I did what was right 
I should snub Mr. Macadam and assert myself ; but 
I am a weak, foolish girl, and once more under the 
influence of the man I love, so I yield to the happi- 
ness that has come into my heart with his coming, 
and do not turn away. I will not greet him kindly, 
however. If I cannot control my heart, I can my 
•words. 

“ I am sorry you came,” I say, stiffly. 

He looks rather blankly at me. 

“ Do you mean it ?” he asks. 

“ I do, indeed !” 

“ I had intended staying here a few days,” he says, 
hesitatingly. “ I thought you might like to make 
up a little party to see the Falls, and all the places 
of interest about.” 

For my life I cannot repress the thrill of delight 
that runs through me as, in fancy, I picture myself 
once more enjoying those free, happy chats of old, 


132 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


or walking at his side listening as he talks to me. 
But I crush down the feeling as unworthy, and an- 
swer him, severely : 

“ I am afraid I shall be much too busy with work 
and rehearsals to have any time for excursions.” 

He looks into my face. 

“ You think I had better go back to-night ?” he 
asks. 

“Much better.” 

There is a long silence. Two or three times he 
clears his throat, as though about to speak. 

The silence becomes oppressive, and I move away 
from him across the stage and out at the door. I 
pause in the little garden outside and extend my 
hand to him in farewell. He seizes it eagerly, and 
drawing it through his arm, forces me to walk with 
him along the broad, tree-shaded avenue. He walks 
rapidly but silently for a few moments; then he 
turns to me. 

“I will do as you wish,” he says. “In a few 
hours I will put all the distance you desire between 
us ; but be kind to me now, Winnie ! I have come 
so far to see you, and my time with you is so short ! 
Give me one smile ! Look up at me once, and let 
me answer my questions from your eyes ! Are you 
happy ?” 

What should I do ? What can I do ? I look up 
into his face. 

“ You are not happy !” he says, with an intensity 
that makes my cheeks burn. 

“Ho!” I answer, simply. 

“Have I anything to do with your .unhappiness?” 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


333 


“Yes.” 

He is silent. 

“ Winnie,” he says, at last, “ you promised to 
trust me. Will you not do so for a little longer? 
One day I can explain all to you.” 

I do not answer. 

“Oh, child,” he cries, “do not look at me so re- 
proachfully ! I cannot speak with those eyes upon 
me ! Winnie, let me write to you !” 

“ No !” I say, resolutely. 

“Just one letter; and if, after reading it, you do 
not forgive me, I ” 

“ I will not permit you to address one word to 
me!” I cry, fiercely. “After our last meeting, I 
am surprised both at your request and your presence 
here !” 

The scene is becoming rather too much for me. 
A cab is passing. I hail it. 

“ Are you going to pass utterly out of my life ?” 
he asks in dismay, as the cab stops. 

“ Apparently so,” I say coldly, turning from him. 

I thank God I have the courage to speak thus to 
him ; but oh, how my heart aches ! 

I give the direction to the driver, take my seat, 
and bow to Macadam ; but he leans on the door and 
seizes both my hands in his strong grasp. 

“ This shall not be our last good-by !” he mur- 
murs. “ Remember, I will never give you up !” 

The cab rolls on and I lean back, trying to stifle 
my pain by thinking, sarcastically, how true were 
my impressions. Buffalo will indeed be full of happy 
memories to me now ; and yet, though I have bid- 


134 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


den him go, and parted from him in scorn and 
anger, I don’t feel half so unhappy as I ought to. 

Why ? 

Because I have seen him, and because of his last 
words. Oh, what fools women are ! 

The next morning, as I am preparing to put away 
the day in the usual monotonous round of reading, 
sewing, walking, and not having a soul to speak 
to till night, I get a letter from Lottie, written in 
great haste. It tells me that my darling mother is 
ill in bed, with a very bad cold on her chest. Lottie 
fears it is a touch of bronchitis, but the doctor 
hopes she will soon be better. 

I am distracted. Mother ill, and I cannot go to 
her ! If I go, the little money I can now send will 
stop. I feel as if I were tied to a wheel ; nay, more 
— I feel as if I were being broken on one. 

I hurry off to the telegraph office, and send a mes- 
sage to Lottie to let me know how mother is. 

How anxiously I wait for the reply ! When it 
comes, it merely tells me that she is about the same ; 
but next morning comes word that she is not so 
well, and by the post a letter from Macadam. 

“In spite of your wishes,” he writes, “I am com- 
pelled to send you this note. I called at your home 
after I returned, and I think it is only kind to tell 
you that your dear mother is very ill indeed, and 
that I think she would be glad if you came to see her.” 

I cannot think ! My brain reels ! My darling 
so ill as that! Can it be! Oh, no! no! no! I can- 
not lose her! She is all I have’! Oh, God! don’t 
take her from me ! My mother ! My mother ! 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


135 


CHAPTER XIII. 

AN UNEXPECTED MEETING. 

I AM HURRYING over the familiar door-step. 
Home once more. 

I have laid the matter before the manager, and, 
there being only ballad nights for the rest of the 
week, I have obtained leave of absence, promising to 
be on hand for the opening in Chicago on Monday. 

“ Is mother so very ill V ’ I ask, as I rush into the 
sitting-room. 

“ Hush ! She is asleep,” Lottie says. 

It is day- dawn. I have been traveling all night, 
and have reached home about four o’clock. I hardly 
had time to touch the bell before Lottie was cling- 
ing round my neck, and the pair of us were sobbing 
as though we were not heart and soul glad to see 
each other. 

“ Is mother so very ill ?” I ask again. 

“Have some breakfast,” Lottie says, evasively. 
“We will talk after.” 

“ No, I must hear all about it now. Tell me how 
she is ?” 

Lottie shakes her head. 

“ Very ill, darling,” she says. “ The doctor hopes 
she will get better, but fears she will never be strong 
again.” 


136 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


“ And you never told me !” I wail. 

“ Why should I have worried you, darling ?” she 
says. “ I was hoping every day that she would im- 
prove. When I told Mr. Macadam the doctor’s ver- 
dict, and he said you ought to be sent for, I did not 
gainsay him, for I wanted you home.” 

“ But, Lottie,” I cry, startled at something in her 
manner, “ mother will soon be well again ?” 

Lottie throws her arms around me, sobbing. 

“Winnie,” she says, “mother will never be better. 
We may keep her with us a little longer, but the doc- 
tor fears she will never stand another winter.” 

I am stunned. 

“ Let me go to her !” I cry, at last. 

“ No !” says Lottie, firmly ; “ not while you are 
like this. When you are quite calm you may, but she 
must not be excited.” 

“ But, Lottie, I cannot stay away from her ! I 
must come home — I must, indeed !” 

“Yes,” says Lottie, “I wanted to talk to you 
about that. You ought indeed to be home, now. 
How soon can you come ?” 

Her question staggers me. 

“ Lottie, do you mean ” 

“ I mean that the sooner you are home, the better.” 

“ I ought to give a fortnight’s notice,” I say. 

Lottie’s answer tells the worst. 

“ That is too long !” she says, gravely. “ It would 
be better not to go back at all.” 

“ I will see what I can do, but I fear I must go.” 

“ Only for a day, then.” 

Lottie tries to force me to eat some breakfast, but 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


137 


my tears choke me. I feared to find my poor dar- 
ling ill, but never anything so terrible as this. 

At last I hear a feeble clapping of hands from the 
half-open door of the next room. 

“Yes, Mother!” cries Lottie, springing up. 

“ Can she not speak ?” I cry, in horror. 

“Not loud enough for us to hear,” she answers, 
and hurries into the next room. 

I hear her say “Yes, darling, she is here — I will 
fetch her ;” and then she calls me. 

As I pass her and step into the darkened room 
she whispers, “ Be brave.” 

I advance to the bedside and clasp in my arms 
the being who is to be our own for such a short time 
longer. 


“ Good-by, Winnie. I will let you know how she 
is ; and be sure and come home on Wednesday.” 

Lottie is seeing me off for Chicago. Mr. Mac- 
adam is with me ; he called yesterday, and spent 
half the day and the whole of this morning in try- 
ing to find me a substitute. Everybody who is 
available is not up in the oratorio we give on Mon- 
day; and when, at last, Mr. Herzog has found a 
lady who can take my place on Tuesday, we are 
forced to be content. 

All thoughts of self are out of my mind. I accept 
the kindness and aid of Mr. Macadam as naturally 
as though he were our brother ; and, indeed, at this 
terrible time he is an immense comfort to us both. 

“ You must let nothing keep you,” he says, as the 


138 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


carriage rolls away from our door. “ I have been to 
see your doctor, and he says nothing can save her.” 

I catch my breath hard. 

“ Nothing ?” 

“The doctor says she is beyond man’s power.” 

We are silent till we reach the depot. I cannot 
speak ; my voice is choked with tears. He leaves 
me a moment to get my ticket, but is soon back at 
my side. We walk down the train to the sleeping- 
car, and he takes me in and proceeds to find my seat. 

“Here it is,” he says, pausing before one in which 
a lady is seated. “ Yours is the upper berth.” 

At the sound of his voice I notice the lady starts, 
and then continues busily reading, with her head 
buried in her newspaper. 

He settles me in a comfortable corner, buys me 
papers, and attends to all my wants with that old, 
lover-like air of proprietorship that is so hard to 
bear when I know it has no meaning. 

“Will you telegraph me when you arrive?” he 
asks, leaning over the seat. “ I shall be so anxious !” 

“I shall be back on Wednesday.” 

“ But that is two days hence, and you have two 
very long journeys before you ! Beside, you are so 
unnerved that you might be ill yourself. Do send 
me word, dear !” 

The word slips out unconsciously. We both 
glance at the lady opposite. Her paper gives a 
suspicious flutter ; I suppose she is laughing. After 
this we continue our conversation in an undertone. 

“I will meet you on Wednesday,” he says. “I 
wish we could have had you back under happier cir- 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


139 


cumstances; but it is something to get you back, 
anjr way.” 

The bell rings. and he grasps my hand. 

“ Good-by,” I say. 

.“Good-by, my poor darling!” is his response, 
and he hurries away. 

I gaze out of the window, but am suddenly at- 
tracted by a sound like the grinding of teeth and 
muttered words that sound like “ I’ll do it ! I’ll do 
it !” 

I turn sharply round. My companion has dropped 
her paper, and with her teeth set, her face ashy 
pale, and her large, dark eyes glowing like fiery 
coals, is gazing at me with the glance of a fiend. 

She must be mad ! I look round for the conductor. 

She interprets my gaze and smiles. As she does 
so the diabolical look fades and her face becomes 
familiar to me. I wonder where I have seen her. 
She does not leave me long in doubt. 

“ You do not recognize me,” she says. 

“ I remember your face perfectly,” I answer, “ but 
I cannot recall your name.” 

“ My memory is better than yours ! I knew you 
the moment you came in the car with your friend. 
You are Winifred Ten Eyck, are you not?” 

“Yes; but ” 

“ But you cannot remember having given a day’s 
serious .thought to the idea of becoming my com- 
panion ?” 

“ Mrs. Haggerstone !” I cry, as the whole circum- 
stance flashes across me. 

“Ah, you recognize me at last! But how comes 


140 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


it that so bright a young lady should have such a 
sad memory for faces ?” 

“ You have altered,” I say, thinking in my own 
mind that it would have been impossible for her own 
mother to have recognized her while her face was 
so distorted with evil passions. 

“ You think I am looking ill ?” she asks. 

I dare not tell the truth, so I give an affirmative 
nod. 

She is silent a moment, as though thinking deeply, 
and then she speaks with the manner of a person 
who is weighing every syllable she utters : 

“ I am ill, very ill. I am going abroad in a few 
days, and I never expect to see America again.” 

“ The climate is too severe ?” I ask. 

“ No,” she answers, calmly. “ I expect to die in a 
very few months.” 

I give a horrified start. She laughs and contin- 
ues, in the same strange manner : 

“ It seems a terrible thing to you, no doubt ; but 
I am looking forward to my death with a good deaf 
of anxiety. I have a keen suspicion that there are 
two or three people who will be just as rejoiced at 
it as I shall be.” 

“ ITow horrible !” is all that I can say. 

“ Yes, it is pretty bad to have outlived your wel- 
come in the world. When such a thing happens, 
the best thing is to be going, and not keep people 
waiting too long for you. You think me a cynic, I 
see, and I can read in your absurdly expressive face 
that you thank Heaven that someone prevented your 
coming to me.” 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


141 


I start. What does she know ? 

“ There, again,” she says, sardonically, “ yon have 
simply given yourself away to me. My dear girl, I 
am no witch, but I can tell you who did it. That 
friend of yours who saw you off. I can tell you 
why! Because he did not want you to get away 
from his control. How did I know he controlled 
you ? I simply read it in your face, which is a book 
that all who run may read. I can tell you more ;” 
and her large, black eyes scan my face as though she 
were in truth reading it. “ You know that he loves 
you ; and yet he has not asked you to marry him, 
and you are pining and fretting for him.” 

I draw down my veil to hide my face. She 
laughs. 

“ I am right, I see. And you are afraid I shall 
read too much ! The spirit of divination is upon 
me. Give me your hand, and let me read your 
future.” 

She takes my hand, without giving me the oppor- 
tunity of resisting, and strips off my glove. 

“ What a foolish, weakly, loving little hand it is !” 
she says, mockingly. “ Just the hand the human 
hawk loves to see on his quarry — all love, and trust, 
and confidence. * The hand of the silly thing they 
call a good woman — a creature who was born to 
love and be loved, and bring up a tribe of little arch- 
angels ! Faugh ! I hate such hands !” 

She flings it away, and then snatches it back, 
pores over my palm diligently awhile, and speaks 
again : 

“ You have a great deal to suffer, I see, but more 


142 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


strength to bear it than I supposed. You have im- 
mense endurance where your love is concerned, for 
your whole life is dominated by your heart-line. 
You will be willing to sacrifice fortune, fame, every- 
thing for love; and what a love it will be! You 
will love but once, but that love will be so enduring 
that the grave itself won’t quench it. This is a 
weakness you had better be warned of and over- 
come, or you may live to recall my words with bit- 
ter tears, for your heart-line carries all before it. 
How a man who loved you could make you suffer ! 
And how splendidly you would suffer ! You would 
be a heroine, but only for love’s sake. Bah ! There’s 
the weakness, again ; but it is a weakness that is al- 
most strength. Well, well, what a goody-goody lit- 
tle hand ! All halos and martyrs’ crowns ! Little 
fool !” 

Again she drops my hand, and again snatches it 
back. 

“ I said I would read your future. Let me see : 
there is an obstacle in the way of your love. It will 
be removed very shortly, but not in the way your 
lover is planning to remove it. You will marry. 
For awhile you will fancy you have gained Para- 
dise, and at that moment your Fate will overshadow 
you.” 

“ And' then ?” I ask, as she pauses. 

“ Then you’ll suffer and become a heroine!” she 
answers, dropping my hand and ceasing to be in- 
terested. 

“ But after that ?” I persist. 

She takes up a paper pettishly. 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


143 


“ Oh, your future is too confused for anyone to 
read. Come to me, if I am alive then, and I’ll tell 
you the rest.” 

She relapses into silence, and I am too much oc- 
cupied with my own thoughts to care to interrupt 
her. She is a very uncanny sort of person, and I 
set her down as a mind-reader ; but my dear mother 
is too much in my thoughts for them to dwell long 
on anything else, and for the time her words pass out 
of my mind. 

She hardly notices me during the rest of the jour- 
ney, though, to tell the truth, I avoid her as much as 
I can. When she emerges from her berth I hurry 
off to the buffet-car, and as soon as she comes there 
for her breakfast I return to the sleeper, and bury 
myself in a book which I send the porter to the 
library for. 

With a little dexterity I manage not to encounter 
her until we arrive at Chicago and I have gathered 
up my things ready to leave the car. Then, as I am 
about to pass her, she stops me. 

“ Good-by, Winifred Ten Eyck,” she says, her 
eyes glittering strangely. “ We’ve met twice now; 
the third is always the fateful time, they say. Well, 
I suppose ours will be in another world ! Marry 
your handsome lover, my dear, and be happy with 
him as long as you can. Good-by !” 

I shudder as I alight. What an evil woman she 
is ! I could almost fancy she was my evil genius ! 
How strange that trick of divination is ! 

How terrible to think that she is approaching the 
most solemn event of her life — the ushering of her 


144 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


soul from a known to an unknown world, with scoff, 
jest, and levity in her heart ! 

Is it possible that such a being can really soon be 
entering on the same new life as my own dear 
mother ! 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


145 


CHAPTER XIV. 

COME AT ONCE. 

A RRIVED at Chicago, I find it all but impossi- 
ble to brace myself up for my night’s work. 

I cannot look bright, or feel bright, or sing my best, 
with this load of care weighing so heavily upon me. 

I am more dead than alive when I reach the hall, 
and cannot bear the kind greetings and inquiries 
which my companions ply me with. All the time I 
am wondering how my darling mother is — if she is 
better, if she is wanting me, if she is calling me. 

I cannot tell how I get through the evening’s 
work, but at last it is over ; and after getting my 
trunk and settling my business with the manager I 
return to the Sherman House, to get a night’s rest 
and take the morning train home. 

I am only in the first part, and it is hardly eleven 
o’clock, when, thoroughly tired out, I go to my room 
and fling myself on the bed, too excited and anxious 
to think about undressing. 

I must have fallen into a half-doze, when I am 
aroused by my darling mother’s voice calling “ Win- 
nie!” 

I start up ! 

Was it a dream ? What was it ? I do not wait to 
think, but with hurried hands drag off the dress I 


146 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


have worn at the concert, put on my walking-dress, 
and with tempestuous speed fling all my possessions 
into my satchel, lock it, and with the same haste put 
on my hat. 

When all is ready I suddenly check myself. Why 
have I done this ? What for ? 

I have no time to reason with myself, for a tap 
comes at the door. 

“ A telegram, Ma’am.” 

I fling open the door. 

“Have I time to catch the Hew York train ?” I 
ask. 

“Yes, Ma’am.” 

“ Then get a coupe at once ; I am quite ready.” 

“But, Ma’am ” 

“ Get the cab ! I must not lose that train !” 

“ But you haven’t read your telegram, Ma’am !” 

“ I know what it is ! Get the cab !” I cry. 

When he is gone I open and read the message. I 
seem to know the words before I look at them. 
They are only these : 

“ Come at once.” 

What happens after that I cannot remember. I 
am not conscious of anything until I am at home, 
and in reply to my unspoken question, Lottie tells 
me that I am in time. 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


147 


CHAPTEK XY. 

U THE FIRST DARK DAY OF NOTHINGNESS.” 

I T IS MARCH — more than seven months, now, 
since we lost mother. 

Seven months ! 

It seems more like seven years since that awful 
morning that took from us all our hope and all our 
energy. 

We worked so cheerfully when we felt it was for 
her we were working ; but, now that it is only for 
ourselves, it seems hardly worth while. Sometimes 
I feel sure that it is not worth while, for life seems 
so sad and dreary, now she has gone. 

She filled a niche in our hearts that is now bare 
and empty, and we seem to have nothing left to 
live for. 

I cannot speak much of that dark, awful time. I 
hardly dare think of it, lest tears should fall and 
soil the delicate lace that lies in my lap, and on 
which my fingers are busily engaged. 

We have never had a moment in which to indulge 
in the luxury of grief for our lost darling. From 
the time we bade her our earthly good-by we have 
had to keep ourselves. If we wanted bread to eat, 
we have had to do the work that came with such 
merciful plenty ; and as we talked of her sufferings, 


148 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


and tried to persuade ourselves that it was all for 
the best, we have been obliged to repress our tears 
lest they should spoil the sewing on which our daily 
bread depended. 

We have longed for a moment to get away and 
indulge in an outburst of grief ; but even as we have 
risen from our seats to slip out, we would catch 
sight of the piles of filmy laces lying round, and 
feel that we were tied to the wheel and could not 
get free. 

I suppose it is a. mercy ; but at times our lot 
seems doubly hard, because we are not only deprived 
of the mother we idolized, but also of the opportu- 
nity to mourn her. 

People have crowded round us, full of curiosity to 
know what we are going to do. We have met all 
inquiries with the unvarying reply : 

“ Live on together.” 

People have told us that we cannot do it ; that we 
are too young to live alone. But we have been 
resolute; we will not be parted — the one to be a 
slave to the monotonous round of teaching, the other 
to go roaming over the country, singing. We will 
cling together ; on that we are resolved. 

We have moved into two front rooms, a hall bed- 
room, and a sitting-room, on the top floor of a house 
on Ninth Street. We took them for light house- 
keeping, and very light our housekeeping is. 

In the first flush of our sorrow, when the only 
thing to be dreaded was separation, and our wants 
seemed so few that we could easily satisfy them, 
Lottie persuaded me to throw up my engagement 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


149 


with Mr. Herzog, and in her turn resigned her 
school. I had many doubts as to the advisability of 
so doing at the time, but we have had no one to 
consult with except Mr. Macadam, and his ideas were 
all centered on keeping me off the stage ; so between 
them I was overruled, but it was not long before we 
both realized our mistake. Lottie’s salary and the 
proceeds of the sale of our furniture just covered 
the debts and the funeral expenses, and we have 
been all winter entirely dependent upon the money 
we could earn from week to week by our needle- 
work. 

Lottie has, I know, made application to the Board 
of Directors to be reinstated in her school, and I 
have made frequent excursions to Mr. Mertens; but, 
as he said, such opportunities as I threw away don’t 
come every day, and I must wait till next season to 
see if anything turns up, though in the meanwhile 
he will keep a lookout for me. 

We have been lucky enough to get introductions 
to a very swell “lace-worker,” and also to a big 
Broadway store, and it is our business to make all 
the little dainty vanities in which the neck of woman 
delights. We turn them out by the dozen, and have 
many a laugh when we see them labeled “ Direct 
from Paris.” We have to sit pretty closely to our 
work — at least Lottie has. I am not so nimble-fin- 
gered, and can only do the unimportant work, while 
she gives all the fairy touches that transform the 
lace and muslin into Parisian confections, and bring 
in the money that pays our room-rent and feeds us. 

The hard work is beginning to tell on her, I am 


150 


A PROUD DISHONOR . 


afraid. We go out as much as we can on Sunday; 
but she looks pale and worn, and were it not for 
these little breaths of fresh air I fear she would have 
to give up. 

It is hard work for us. Our living depends on our 
being regular and punctual in sending home our 
“ confections,” and, Lottie being so clever with her 
fancy touches, we have almost more to do than we 
can manage ; therefore, if we take a few hours’ re- 
laxation, we are bound to sit up on our return and 
finish the work that would have been done if we had 
not been idling. Often it is three and four o’clock 
in the morning before we get to bed ; but we never 
complain, for we both realize that it cannot last, and 
take all the comfort we can out of being together 
while we can. 

Lottie sits hour after hour, sewing as if her life 
depended on it ; and when the room gets stuffy, and 
we have to throw the window up, we have a good 
deal of fun over the uneasiness of the policeman on 
our beat at the grinding of our little hand machine. 

We laugh and say he will fancy we are coiners, 
and make bad jokes about the slowness of our sys- 
tem ; for, with all our economy, we find it pretty 
difficult to get along. 

We breakfast and lunch in our rooms, cooking on 
a little old stove we used to use at home in the sum- 
mer. I do the cooking and housekeeping, while 
Lottie goes on sewing. For our dinners we go out ; 
and indeed, for the sake of keeping up our credit 
with Mrs. Frayne, our landlady, regularly every 
day at six we start out in search of a dinner. It is 


A PROUD DISHONOR . 


151 


only about twice a week that we find one. As a 
rule, we walk up and down the lime walk in Wash- 
ington Square (“Unter den Linden,” I always call 
it) until a decent time has elapsed, when we cross to 
Sixth Avenue, buy some eggs or potted meat, skirt 
the Square on our way back, and, when once more 
in the privacy of our apartment, dine off the provis- 
ions, which we carefully smuggle upstairs, so Mrs. 
Frayne shan’t see. 

When we are very wealthy we go to a fiftv-cent 
table d'hote on Sixth Avenue, and once we try an 
Italian ten-cent restaurant on Thirteenth Street ; but 
we find it full of unkempt, staring foreigners, and 
in my embarrassment I, the Italian scholar, manage 
to decipher the bill of fare sufficiently to order five 
consecutive courses of spaghetti, which seems to be 
a most versatile comestible in the hands of an 
Italian. However, we never get up sufficient cour- 
age to try it again, and five days of the week we 
dine within Washington Square, and the other two 
we go to Jacquin’s. 

We have a few visitors. The most agreeable is a 
dear, big, burly cousin named George Thorne. 
With him we take all our outings. George is a 
speculative fiend, and at some portion of the year is 
quite wealthy, at others equally impoverished. It’s 
one of his impecunious moments now ; but what lit- 
tle he has he lavishes on us in princely style. The 
nights are getting very close, now, and hardly an 
evening but George appears, toiling up the inter- 
minable flights of stairs with a little brick of ice- 
cream for us. 


152 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


Sometimes Mr. Macadam calls, bringing with him 
a breath of a happier life that brightens us and 
makes us forget our worries for a time. He brings 
us flowers and books, and is so kind and thoughtful 
that it takes a superhuman effort to beat down the 
old, sweet dream! He is always making covert 
hints about the time when he will be able to take 
me out of my present worry, and telling me that he 
has been seeing his lawyers ; but I cannot tell what 
his manner means — he is more than a friend, but 
less than a lover. 

So, with frequent visits and kindnesses from the 
Athertons, our life runs on. 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


153 


CHAPTER XYI. 

THE “OLD MAID’S” CORNER. 

I T IS A WARM afternoon in April, we are in 
what Lottie calls “ a drive ” of work, and, as our 
wont is, when both hot and busy, we are sitting on 
the landing, where we get more air and less sun- 
light. 

The rest of our floor is rented to two young men, 
who only have bed and breakfast at Mrs. Frayne’s ; 
consequently we own the whole floor during the 
day, and as there is a gorgeous landing, all nicely 
carpeted, we have Mrs. Frayne’s permission to carry 
our work and chairs there and use it as we like. 

We are sitting, one each side of the window, sew- 
ing away for dear life. 

“ How are you getting on, old dame ?” says Lottie 
from the depths of her rocker. 

“ Feebly ; it is too hot to work.” 

“ Well, you need not, if you do not care about din- 
ing to-morrow,” Lottie laughs. “ It’s dinner-day, 
and my appetite is getting whetted already.” 

“ If I were as cool as you I would not care,” I an- 
swer, glancing at Lottie’s neglige attire and attitude. 

She is a young lady who would rather die of heat 
than wear a wrapper, or let me wear one; so 
through the longest and hottest days I have to sit 


154 


A PROUD DISHONOR . 


up, armed cap-a-pie, with tight bodice, bones and 
fixings. 

For once, though, Lottie has succumbed, and with 
sleeves rolled back, throat unbuttoned, and her slip- 
pered feet on a chair, is taking it easy. 

“ You’d look pretty if anyone called !” I growl. 

I am very sore about the confiscation of a Mother 
Hubbard gown Lottie found in the bottom of my 
trunk this morning. 

“ Prettier than I should in a wrapper ?” she re- 
torts. “But say, Winnie, do you think our funds 
would permit our sending the Princess for some 
fruit?” 

“ We might afford ten cents, I think, especially as 
we are going out on Sunday. I’ll go and ring for 
Cerulia.” 

The “ Princess,” or Cerulia, is the Shum-Tum and 
niece of the establishment, and I am sure Dickens' 
“Marchioness ” was not quainter or blacker. Ceru- 
lia is the dirtiest thing in creation, as willing as she 
is dirty, and as hopelessly stupid as either. Send 
her for a spool of cotton and she will as likely as not 
return with a package of tacks. 

“ I’d better be on the safe side and write ‘ berries ’ 
cn a bit of paper, I suppose,” 1 say, rising. 

“ Let me write it,” says Lottie. “ Maybe, if you 
wrote it, she might mistake it for 4 beans and I do 
so long for some fruit.” 

“ How will these do?” says a voice behind us, and 
a tempting basket of strawberries is held before Lot- 
tie. We turn, and see Jim Macadam. With one 
bound Lottie has taken refuge in her bedroom. 


A PROUD DISHONOR . 


155 


Mr. Macadam looks amazed. 

“ What ever has she flown for ? Did I frighten 
her?” 

“Not exactly — that is — very much,” I answer, 
laughing; and Mr. Macadam follows me into the 
sitting-room, where, without waiting for ceremon}^, 
I begin to prepare the tea. 

We always have our afternoon tea; I don’t think 
we could get along without it were we twice as poor. 

Mr. Macadam looks on silently as I get our doll’s 
tea-set (as I call it) and arrange it on the basket- 
table. It looks quite pretty when all is ready. The 
strawberries are piled in a cool, refreshing-looking 
heap, and have the place of honor. They are 
flanked by a plate of thin bread and butter, and 
kept in countenance by a little vase of roses — an- 
other of Mr. Macadam’s thoughtful kindnesses. The 
warm sunlight sends a bright gleam across the table 
and glorifies my handiwork. 

I stand back and survey the arrangement with 
some pride ; it is one of my weaknesses to think I 
have the knack of making things look pretty and 
comfortable. 

Mr. Macadam evidently agrees with me. 

“ How pretty that is !” he says, rising and stand- 
ing beside me. “ It seems too dainty for ordinary 
mortals.” 

I make some laughing rejoinder and turn to Lot- 
tie, who has just come in. I am surprised to find 
her whole manner changed. She greets Mr. Mac- 
adam gravely, and throughout tea I notice she seems 
distracted and unlike herself. 


156 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


When we have finished, she hands me a piece of 
muslin. 

“ Will you machine-stitch that for me ?” she says, 
at the same time inviting Mr. Macadam out onto the 
landing. 

A suspicion crosses my mind that she is going to 
speak to him, for yesterday she asked me if I had 
any understanding with him, and when I replied in 
the negative, scolded me gently for allowing him to 
call. 

I reminded her that he had not called more than a 
dozen times since our trouble ; but she only looked 
grave, and made no reply. 

I sew on, wondering what she is saying to him, 
and as I end a seam I hear him say : 

“ Then I must not come again ?” 

And Lottie replies : 

“ I think not.” 

A sharp pain shoots through me. With quick 
steps I go out on the landing, with the intention of 
preventing his dismissal, somehow ; but once there 
I realize the enormity of what I am about to do, 
and check myself in time. 

The newspaper lies unopened on a table ; I take 
it up to hide my confusion. 

“ Fancy — we have not opened a newspaper to- 
day,” I say. 

Macadam rises, and with the little, nervous cough 
I always notice when he is embarrassed or worried, 
answers me. 

“ I am equally culpable,” he says. “ Is there any- 
thing startling ?” 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


157 


He comes beside me and looks over my shoulder. 
We take the Herald , and I am scanning the outside 
sheet. 

“The news! the news !” he cries, in mock impa- 
tience. “ We can read the advertisements after.” 

“ I always read the old maid’s corner first,” I say, 
obstinately. 

I run my finger through the births, engagements, 
marriages, and finally come to the deaths. 

“ Adams, Ayrton, Bernheim,” I mumble out, and 
go on scanning the names till I come to the H’s. 

The first of them is Haggerstone ! 

Involuntarily I pause, and keep my finger on it. 

I hear an exclamation from beside me, the paper 
is torn from my hands, and Mr. Macadam, in a 
changed voice, reads out ; 

On Sunday, March 17th, at Villa Car ola, Naples, 
Adelaide Haggerstone, late of New York, aged 47. 

A strange exultation is in his voice as he reads, 
and at the end it is almost a cry of joy. He looks 
at the paper a minute, reading it again and again, 
and then I hear him murmur : 

“ Dead ! Dead ! Thank God !” 

He folds up the paper and puts it in his pocket, 
and with a hurried, absent-minded bow he snatches 
up his hat and is gone. 


158 


A PROUD DISHONOR . 


CHAPTER XVII. 


SHOULD THIS MEET THE EYE. 

IME goes on. It is getting very warm, and but 



JL for the faithful George Thorne, who, still pen- 
niless, is yet full of resources, we should surely suc- 


cumb. 


He will not allow us to work, these hot nights, 
any more ; and indeed we have rarely any necessity 
to do so now, for work is beginning to get slack. 
About six o’clock he will come to coax us out. Our 
favorite resort is the Battery, for it is cool, breezy, 
and inexpensive. At times we go up onto the iron 
steamboat pier, and on one occasion he takes us down 
to Coney Island. 

"What a lovely time we have ; only, we get hun- 
gry! 

My lifelong curse has been an expressive face ; and 
now, as we walk along the broad hotel piazzas, cov- 
ered with lunching thousands, I can’t help looking 
hungry. Lottie nudges me and says “ Don’t !” and I 
try my best to look overfed ; but finally George re- 
marks that he feels as hungry as I look, and takes us 
to a little place close to the band-stand, where we 
find refreshments and hear Levy play ; and then, 
during the feast, George dives down into his tail- 
pockets, which are as big, warm, and full of kind- 


a Pnom) dishonor. 


359 


nesses as his great, honest heart, and according to 
his regular custom produces a small present for each 
of us — a paper fan for Lottie and a bag of over- 
heated caramels for me. 

Dear George! Your thoughtful kindness saved 
us many a heart-ache that summer ! 

The day after our Coney Island outing, Lottie and 
I, with closed blinds to exclude the heat, are sitting 
working like slaves, to make up for the time lost 
yesterday. 

Cerulia comes slipshodding in with the newspaper 
and lays it down between us. It is our general rule 
to glance at the paper when it comes, and if there is 
anything particularly interesting to read it aloud in 
the afternoon. 

This morning we cannot spare the time, so we 
work on without pause till luncheon. 

Lottie makes a dash for it, and settles herself to 
enjoy it while she is eating her bread and cheese. 

A sudden exclamation makes me look from my 
book. 

“ What’s the matter ?” I ask. 

“Winnie, here is someone advertising for you!” 
Lottie cries. 

“Never!” and I rush to her side, and read the 
notice with her. 

Should this meet the eye of Miss Winifred Ten 
Eyck, formerly of One Hundred and Thirty-fifth 
Street, Harlem, she will hear of something to her 
advantage by communicating immediately with 
Messrs. Wood & Turner, Morse Building, Nassau 
Street — Boom 80. 


160 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


“ Good gracious ! What can it be ! No one can 
have been so foolish as to have left me a fortune !” 

“ It’s something to your advantage, anyhow.” 

“We have no long-lost relatives, have we, 
Lottie ?” 

“None that I know of ; but put on your things, 
and go and see what it is.” 

“ But the work !” I cry, aghast. 

“Never mind that. You hurry off, and I’ll work 
for two, in the meantime.” 

“ Whatever benefits me will benefit you, dear old 
sister,” I say, hugging her. 

Lottie nods, and, while I dress, hunts up my bap- 
tismal certificate, the date and place of my mother’s 
wedding, and what little data she can, to prove my 
identity. 

Armed with these, I start off so intensely curious 
that the deliberate pace of the car-horses drives me 
nearly frantic. It seems years before we are a 
stone’s throw from Grace Church; and though I 
amuse myself by trying to decide whether the aver- 
age of German firms on Broadway is two or three 
to the block, it seems an hour before the Post Office 
Building looms in sight. Soon I am hurrying past 
the loading mail-carts to the imposing Morse Build- 
ing. 

I endeavor to walk with great dignity past the 
dozens of men who are hurrying in and out ; but at 
the swing-doors one tries to push me in and another 
to thrust me out, and I soon conclude that when I 
come down town I must “step lively,” with the rest 
of the world. 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


161 


I stride up to the marble slab with the air of one 
to the manner born and run it over for the name of 
my firm. 


Seventh Floor. 

Room 80. 

Wood & Tuener. 

• 

Without appearing to look for the elevator I dis- 
cover it hidden away in a dark corner, and joining 
the hurrying throng, surge into it, and feel quite 
business-like until the elevator-man offers me his 
stool of office ; and when we reach the seventh and 
last floor he shows me the view from the staircase 
window, and the passage on which are Wood & 
Turner’s offices. 

On a door to the left, right at the end of this pas- 
sage, is painted “Mr. Wood;” on another to the 
right, “ Mr. Turner.” I am at a loss to know which 
of these gentlemen to consult, and turn about in 
hopes of finding yet another with the combined 
names. I confront another, which bears the inscrip- 
tion “ Room 80.” 

As this was the room mentioned in the advertise- 
ment, I enter. The room is divided by a ground- 
glass partition, and at the noise of the opening door 
a head bobs up over it. 

The head takes a good look at me and disappears, 
and I hear a whispered conversation going on behind 
the partition, the result of which is to bring two 
more heads bobbing up. 

I get furiously red and angry at these grinning 
heads, and in severe tones ask : 


162 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


“Is Mr. Wood in?” 

As I speak, the heads disappear as if by magic, 
and there is a sudden and tremendous scratching of 
pens, and a very faint but still audible giggle. 

I am thoroughly put out, and lay an impatient 
hand on the door in the partition, with the intention 
of confronting the idiots, when a grave voice behind 
stops me., 

“ Whom do you wish to see, Madam ?” 

A quiet, elderly man is standing beside me, arid 
as I take in the situation I become mollified. This 
is the managing clerk, and during his absence they 
have been having a good time behind the partition, 
for it was evidently his arrival on the scene which 
caused the prompt disappearance of the grinning 
heads. 

“ I want to see Mr. Wood,” I say. 

“ I regret that Mr. Wood is out at present.” 

“ Mr. Turner, then.” 

There is a perceptible flutter behind the partition 
which sounds like a giggle wrapped up in stiff 
paper. 

The grave man casts an austere eye at the ground- 
glass ; but there is no one visible, and such a tremen- 
dous scratching of pens that the clerks seem all to 
have gone mad with industry. 

“ Mr. Turner is in, Madam, but engaged at present. 
Will you send in your name? Mr. Turner will beat 
liberty shortly. Conried !” 

An ugly, common little German emerges from be- 
hind the partition — a meek youth, with hair parted 
down the middle, and such a mild expression that 


A PROUD DISUONOR. 


1G3 


it would seem impossible for his face to wear 
the fiendish grin which I saw on it a few seconds 
ago. 

“ Take this card to Mr. Turner, and ask if he can 
see the lady.” 

In a minute Conried returns. 

“Mr. Turner will be disengaged in a moment. 
Will the lady step into the office?” 

He conducts me along a passage with glass doors 
on every side, and stopping before one labeled “ Mr. 
Wood,” ushers me into a comfortably-furnished 
room. I seat myself in the leathern arm-chair and am 
surveying the table, bespattered with ink, the piles of 
documents, and the walls covered with oaken presses 
divided into pigeon-holes, and surmounted with a 
frieze of deed-boxes labeled “ T. Gibson, Esq., Ex’or.,” 
“Miss Merry weather’s Trees,” and so on, when the 
door opens and a mild young man enters. 

“ The Herald , Madam,” he says meekly, with a 
very bold stare. 

I take the paper and begin to read, when the 
door again opens and another simple-looking youth, 
with another impudent stare, comes in. 

“ The Supplement, Madam.” 

He withdraws, and I sit watching the door wait- 
ing for further developments. 

Sure enough, in a minute or two the ugly Conried 
comes in, fidgets round for a second, and then aim- 
lessly picking up a torn piece of blotting-paper, 
makes for the door. 

“ You’ve forgotten what you came for,” I suggest. 

He turns, looking very sheepish. 


164 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


“Were you to turn the paper for me or to bring 
me a fan ?” I ask, sweetly. 

He reddens to the tips of his enormous ears and 
vanishes. Then I am left in peace. 

I wait a very long time, and then Conried ap- 
pears, but such a meek edition of himself that I am 
sure they have realized behind the partition that I 
am not to be made game of. 

I am conducted into a very luxurious apartment, 
with hardly any indications of an olfice about it. 
The one deed-box is open, and reveals a bottle and 
glasses ; and on the mantel-shelf are some flowers, a 
pipe, and the photograph of a female, taken in a 
costume that would find favor at the torrid zone. 

With great adroitness Conried snaps-to the deed- 
box, flashes the flowers and pipe behind a sober 
tome, and turns the face of the photograph to the 
wall. So quickly is it all done that I can scarcely be 
said to have realized the forbidden articles. 

A rather flashily-dressed young man sits writing 
at the desk. He looks up and surveys me boldly 
through an eyeglass. 

“ The deuce !” he says. 

“ I beg your pardon.’’ 

“ Really, you must pardon me for having kept you 
so long,” he says, offering me a chair. “Had I 
known who wanted to see me I would not have kept 
you a moment.” 

At this juncture the door opens and a white-haired 
old gentleman enters fussily. 

“ Oh, beg pardon, Turner,” he says, perceiving me. 
“ I did not know you were engaged. I said engaged.” 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


165 


The repetition is made in an irritated tone, but so 
promptly following on the first assertion that he 
must have expected an answer almost before the 
words were out of his mouth. 

“ I think this is one of your clients, Wood,” Mr. 
Turner remarks. 

Mr. Wood surveys me, bows, lays down his hat, 
and seats himself. 

“ Looks like a case of Turner’s !” he mutters to 
himself ; and then, as though contradicting some one, 
“ I said Turner’s.” 

Mr. Turner coughs, and tries to cover the remark, 
and I gaze round the room, wondering why I look 
like a case of Turner’s. 

Some papers on the nearest desk catch my eye. 
“ Proceedings in Divorce ” is pretty extensively in- 
dorsed on them. I am enlightened. The giggling 
clerks took me for a new plaintiff or co-respondent, 
and hence Mr. Turner’s affability and Mr. Wood’s 
snappishness. 

I am sorry to prove so uninteresting, and feel quite 
humbled as I remark to Mr. Wood : 

“You advertised for Winifred Ten Eyck, this 
morning.” 

“ Yes, in the Times. I said Times !” 

“ I saw it in the Herald .” 

“ I said Times!” Mr. Wood reiterates, angrily. 

I don’t want to quibble about the paper, so make 
no reply. 

Mr. Turner comes forward. 

“ What about the notice ?” he asks. 

“ I am the Miss Ten Eyck advertised for.” 


1GG 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


“ Indeed ! I said indeed !” Mr. Wood snaps out. 

“ Tiie advertisement stated that I should hear of 
something to my advantage ; I should be glad to do 
so.” 

“ There are a few preliminaries to be got over first. 
I want to be assured that you are the right young 
lady. I said right young lady.” 

I am getting exasperated with his manner. 

“ I have brought my certificate of birth,” I say, 
producing it. 

Mr. Wood puts on his glasses and examines it 
carefully. 

“Winifred Lilian Ten Eyck,” he reads, and refers 
to some notes. “Yes, the paper says Winifred L. 
Ten Eyck, but I require further proof. Were you 
ever a companion to anyone ?” 

“Never !” 

“ I said companion.” 

“ No, never !” 

“Never!” says Mr. Wood, nodding. “Not the 
right person.” 

“ I can give you ample proof ” 

“ I said not the right person,” he reiterates, an- 
grily. 

“And I said I could give you ample proof that I 
was the person wanted,” I answer, getting angry in 
my turn. “ I think it will be better to give me time 
to prove my assertion before you are so terribly cer- 
tain.” 

Mr. Wood gapes at me with his mouth wide 
open ; he looks as though lie expected the earth to 
open and swallow one or both of us, 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


167 


“I said not the right person!” lie murmurs 
feebly. 

I start to my feet, furious with indignation. Mr. 
Wood gazes helplessly at me, as though he expected 
to be shaken ; and Mr. Turner gets quickly behind 
him, and makes signs at me. His countenance ex- 
presses the most anguished desire to laugh,, as in 
eloquent pantomime he explains to me that Mr. 
Wood is a trifle absent, and this is merely a little 
peculiarity of his. 

I subside, feeling rather small, and there is a mo- 
mentary silence. Mr. Wood is too crushed to speak, 
so Mr. Turner chimes in. 

“We have to be a little particular on this point,” 
he says. “ Are you quite sure you were never a 
companion ?” 

“ I contemplated it once, but gave up the idea.” 

“How far had you carried it before you aban- 
doned it ?” 

“ I had had an interview with a lady, but I de- 
clined the engagement.” 

“ What was the lady’s name?” 

“ Is it necessary to the matter in hand ?” I ask, 
not wishing to regale them with my private history. 

“Most necessary,” says Mr. Wood, firmly; but as 
I look at him he gets nervous, rises, and going to 
the desk in the far window begins to make notes. 

Mr. Turner gives me a meaning smile, and takes 
his seat. 

“ Most necessary,” he affirms ; and from the far 
corner I hear a feeble echo, “I said most neces- 
sary 1” 


168 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


“ The lady’s name was Haggerstone.” 

“ Haggerstone. Did you ever see her again ?” 

“ Yes; I traveled to Chicago with her.” 

“ Where from ?” 

“ Jersey City.” 

“Did she recognize you ?” 

“ Certainly ; we talked together.” 

“ On different topics ?” 

“Ho; the subject was principally a personal one.” 
“ Can you oblige me with the gist of the conver- 
sation ?” 

“I had rather not.” 

“You forget it, possibly?” 

“Ho; I remember it perfectly. It was of such a 
curious nature that I could not easily forget it.” 

“ I am afraid I must trouble you for it, then.” 

“ It was strictly personal.” 

“ nevertheless, it is so important to us that we can 
go no further till we know it.” 

Mr. Turner looks at Mr. Wood, who murmurs: 
“Hot till we know it.” 

I hesitate a few seconds, feeling so utterly silly at 
having to relate a fortune-telling episode to these 
men. 

“ She was pretending to read my destiny,” I say, 
at last. 

“Well, what did she tell you?” 

“ Keally, that cannot matter.” 

“ But it does. What was it ?” 

“ That I should shortly marry the gentleman who 
came to see me off,” I say, blushing furiously. 

“ And his name was ?” 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


169 


“ Macadam.” 

“ Exactly. Thank you. We are quite satisfied as 
to your identity. Well, Miss Ten Eyck, before leav- 
ing America Mrs. Haggerstone called on us and 
placed her affairs in our hands, making her will at 
the same time.” 

“Yes.” 

“We lately received the melancholy intelligence 
that our .client died in Italy. We sent our repre- 
sentative over, who returned with the necessary cer- 
tificates, and we then proceeded to administer the 
will. Mrs. Haggerstone has left you five # thousand 
dollars.” 

“Mrs. Haggerstone has left me money?” 

“On certain conditions. It would appear that 
Mrs. Haggerstone was much interested in your wel- 
fare. She repeated to us at length the conversation 
she had with you on the journey to Chicago. She 
leaves you five thousand five hundred dollars as a 
wedding present, to be paid you on your wedding 
morning, and five hundred dollars to buy you a 
trousseau” 

“ How generous, and how extraordinary !” I laugh. 

“ The money for your trousseau” chips in Mr. 
Wood, whom I had almost forgotten, “ will be paid 
to you w T hen you apply for it.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ I said when you apply for it.” 

“ Of course, you understand there is a condition,” 
says Mr. Turner. 

“ What is it ?” 

“ That your husband is Mr. James Macadam.” 


170 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


I start to my feet ! 

“ What made her say that ?” 

“ The will gives no clew to her motives, only stat- 
ing her intentions.” 

“ I did not know she knew his name !” 

“ 1 will read you the will,” says Mr. Turner, “ and 
then you will be in possession of all the facts.” 

He produces a document, and I hear something 
about last will and testament, and then Adelaide 
Ilaggerstone, and then whole pages of “ whereas,” 
and “ moreover,” and “ forasmuch,” and “ herein be- 
fore-mentioned,” and then my brain takes a nap 
through quires of leasehold and copyhold, and then 
comes the name of Mary Smith, who seems to be be- 
coming possessed of a powerful lot of something. 
Then comes a pause, another lot of chatter, and 
finally I hear my name, closely followed by that of 
James Macadam, and then there is a flourish of 
trumpets, and Mary Smith as executrix. 

“Was Mary Smith her maid ?” I ask. 

“ Yes, up to the time of her death.” 

“ Isn’t it funny to have made her servant execu- 
trix ?” I say. 

“We thought it odd,” Mr. Turner assents. 

“ Her will is as peculiar as herself,” I say. 

“You thought her odd, then?” cries Mr. Turner. 

“ I thought her more than odd. I thought her 
mad.” 

“ My dear young lady,” Mr. Turner says, quickly, 
“ it is not for us to air that theory, lest some rela- 
tive gets hold of it, acts on it, and gets the will set 
aside, and we lose our five thousand dollars.” 


A PROUD DISHONOR . 


171 


“ But isn’t it strange ?” 

“Mrs. Haggerstond was a strange woman; she 
came to us and placed her affairs in our hands in the 
most eccentric manner. I think, if anyone were to 
try to set aside her will on the grounds of insanity, 
we should be most important witnesses. She in- 
sisted on taking her affairs out of the hands of her 
former advisers for no reason whatever, and forced 
the business on us. Really, we have only a very 
superficial knowledge of the whole thing.” 

“ I am trespassing on your time,” I say. 

“Not at all,” both partners answer, nevertheless 
springing from their chairs with the greatest alac- 
rity. 

'“Will you furnish us with a copy of your certifi- 
cate of birth ?” Mr. Turner says. “ And let us know 
when the conditions are complied with, and we will 
empower you to draw on us.” 

I hurry out, feeling horribly conscious of blushing 
at this last remark, and make the best of my way 
home to Lottie. 

I think the matter over on my journey back; but 
there are two mysteries that I cannot solve, namely, 
why Mrs. Haggerstone left me the money, and why 
she left it to me on the condition that I should mar- 
ry Mr. Macadam. 

When I tell Lottie about it, she adds another to 
my list of puzzles. 

“How,” she asks, “did Mrs. Haggerstone know 
Mr. Macadam’s name was James ?” 

This is unanswerable. 

“I believe,” she goes on, oracularly, “that he 


172 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


knew her, and prevented you from going to live with 
her for a reason, and that there is some dreadful 
mystery at the bottom of the whole thing. I shall 
ask him all about it, if we ever see him again.” 

“ Lottie!” I cry, “you could not do such a thing! 
It would be like asking him to marry me !” 

“Yes, I suppose it would. All I have to say, 
Winnie, is that there is too much m3 r stery connected 
with him to suit me, and I am very glad that I 
stopped his visiting us.” 

I don’t answer, but I know she is right. 


a Proud dishonor . 


173 


CHAPTER XYIII. 

WHAT WILL LOTTIE SAY? 

L OTTIE SAYS, one morning, “Winnie, I have 
something serious to say to you. Has it oc- 
curred to you that, now the season is over, the de- 
mand for our work is very small ?” 

“Yes !” 

“Well, darling sister, George Thorne has been 
thinking about it, too, and I have just received this 
letter from him, saying that one of his patents, the 
coupler, has been taken up, and he has been offered 
an awfully nice appointment to oversee the manufac- 
ture of them, and — and — he’s going to have heaps of 
money, and — well — that is — I am to meet him this 
afternoon.” 

“ And tell him whether he may accept it, and take 
a wife with him to oversee him.” 

“ Why, Winnie, how did you know?” 

“ Never mind, darling; but you will say Yes. He’s 
a nice fellow, and I would love to have him for my 
brother. He made such a splendid poor man, that 
he will simply be too seductive as a rich one. I wish 
you joy, darling.” 

“Put I haven’t decided yet, Winnie, because 
of ” 

“ Of me ? Well, you sly thing, you know that you 
haven’t just received that letter ^ but that you have 


174 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


had it three whole days ; and as a nod is as good as a 
wink to a blind horse, I surmised certain things 
from- certain other things, and my plans are all 
lixed.” 

“You’ll come and live with us !” Lottie cries, her 
dark eyes aglow with pleasure. 

“ No, darling ; I have my secret, too.” 

“ Mr. Macadam ?”■ 

“ Hush, dear, don’t mention him. Mr. Mertens is 
the man you mean.” 

“ Oh, Winnie, you won’t go back !” 

“ Indeed I will,” I say ; and taking out a letter 
I show it to her. “ See here, Mr. Mertens says he 
has a splendid opportunity of placing me at once, and 
I am going this afternoon to accept it ; so if you want 
me to be your bridemaid, Mistress Lottie, you must 
make haste and get married.” 

“ But, Winnie, we cannot let you go !” 

“ Don’t say a word, Lottie ; you must know that I 

am not happy, and work is the only thing for 

me, believe me.” 

Lottie understands, and urging me no further, 
dresses herself to keep her appointment with George 
Thorne. 

After Lottie is gone I run over to Mr. Mertens’ 
office to tell him I’ll take the engagement, and come 
home feeling a little sick at heart. When I go on 
the road this time it will be a farewell to all 
thoughts of Mr. Macadam, for despite all that has 
happened I cannot lose faith in him ; but in a few 
days, now, I will be going away, and it seems as 
though I should have to do so without hearing an- 


A PROUD DISUONOR. 


175 


other word about him, for he seems to have taken 
Lottie’s decision as final, and bidden farewell to us 
forever. It is a month, now, since she sent him away. 

Cerulia is at the door as I come up the steps : 

“ Miss Lottie is out, Miss !” she says, holding the 
door open. 

“ Yes, she went out before I did,” I say, smiling. 

Cerulia looks confused, and dashing into the house, 
makgs for the kitchen stairs. 

“ Has anyone called ?” I ask. 

“No, Miss, nobody,” she answers, and flies down, 
giggling. 

I ascend quietly, feeling a little disgusted at her 
frivolity. 

As I reach our floor I hear a man’s tread in our 
sitting room. My heart stands still. I throw the 
door open, and there, standing before me, brown, 
strong, and bonny as ever, is James Macadam. 

“Winnie!” he cries, as he sees me, and seizing 
both my hands, covers them with kisses. 

There is- a giggle and a sudden scuffling down the 
stairs, and I have the satisfaction of seeing Cerulia 
scrambling down at break-neck speed. 

“ Do let me go, please,” I say, trying to be angry, 
but oh ! so glad to see him. 

“I will not,” he says masterfully, drawing me 
nearer to him and putting his arm around me. 

“ Cerulia is outside,” I say. 

“What does it matter ?” he laughs, and bends over 
me. 

In another moment he would have kissed me, but 
I wrench myself free. 


176 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


“Mr. Macadam, how dare you!” 

“ I can dare a good deal now— even your wrath,” 
he laughs, and follows me to the window, whither I 
have retreated to cool my burning cheeks. 

He possesses himself of my hands again, and 
looks earnestly at me ; then exclaims, suddenly : 

“Winnie, } r ou have been ill!” 

“Ho, I am all right,” I say, trying to release my 
hands. “ I hope you have been well.” 

“ I am a lad again, Winnie,” he says, earnestly. 
“ Are you not glad to see me ? Y ou shrink from 
me. What is it ?” 

“ Nothing. Have you had a pleasant time ?” 

“ I have been to Italy ; and though I went An busi- 
ness, it turned out the most perfect pleasure-trip I 
ever had.” 

Instantly I connect his sudden departure for Italy 
and his business with Mrs. Haggerstone. 

“ It must have been warm in Italy !” I say with 
freezing politeness but burning cheeks, for he will 
not let go my hand. 

He seems chilled by my manner, but answers, 
absently : 

“ I daresay ; I never noticed. AY hat have you been 
doing, lately ?” 

“ Oh, I have lots of news. Lottie is going to be 
married quite soon, and I have been equally fortunate 
in making an engagement.” 

He starts, drops my hands, and turns on me 
angrily. 

“Ho you mean to tell me you are engaged?” 

“ Yes !” 


A PROUD DISHONOR . 


177 


He tarns away, and looking out of the window 
lie whistles softly. The memory of that other time 
comes back to me bitterly. 

“ This, then, is the reason of your coldness to me?” 

“ I am not aware that I have ever been anything 
else to you.” 

“ Winnie, you are not yourself. Have you forgot- 
ten me in these few weeks ?” 

“ I hope so.” 

He nods his head gravely. 

“ Since when are you engaged ?” 

“ About two hours.” 

“ To George Thorne ?” 

“ Ho ; Lottie is engaged to him.” 

“ Then who the dickens is it ?” 

“Mr. Mertens,” I say, enjoying his discomfiture. 

There is a pause ; and then, unable to tease him 
longer, I add : 

“He is to write to me in a day or two to fix the 
date ; and this, time I am to be first contralto, instead 
of second.” 

A smile breaks over his face. 

“ Oh ! That’s your engagement, is it ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Then I’m sorry to say you won’t be able to ful- 
fill it,” 

“Why not?” 

“ I have another for you.” 

“ You have?” 

“ Yes ; as my wife.” 

“Jim!” 

“Winnie!” he murmurs, in a voice that is but 


178 


A PROUD DISHONOR . 


a whisper, “Winnie 1 my darling!” and raising my 
hand to his lips, he kisses it passionately on palm 
and fingers. 

I turn my head ; I dare not let him see my face. 
He has stirred my soul to its very depths, and were 
my eyes to meet his, I could no longer conceal the 
deep love I have for him. 

“Winnie!” he whispers, and his warm breath is 
on my cheek. “My darling! Mine alone! Ho one 
can part us now !” 

A delicious happiness steals over me, and yet a 
shyness that hangs in heavy weights on my eyelids, 
preventing me from raising them, and lays its 
lingers on my lips, keeping me dumb. 

My silence disturbs him. 

“Oh, Winnie!” he cries, “you will take me?” 

He does not give me any time to answer but 
gathers me to him, and at last I am at rest. 

He is the first to break the long, happy silence. 

“ I sometimes feared this moment was never 
coming for us,” he says. 

“ I slip my hand in his but make no reply.” 

“ Tell me — did you doubt me ?” 

“ A little,” I murmur. 

“ Did you think I did not love you ?” 

“ Ho l” 

“ What, then ?” 

I hesitate a moment, and then find courage to 
answer him. 

“ I thought you loved me, but I sometimes doubted 
that you loved me enough to — to ” 

“ Make you my own dear wife ?” 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


170 


I nod my head, and continue : 

“ And sometimes I thought that you did love me 
entirely, but that there ^as some reason why you 
never told me so.” 

He shudders a little, but answers, lightly : 

“ And what do you think now ?” 

“ I am too happy to think.” 

“ Little Sybarite ! But you must think ! Tell me 
which surmise you suppose was the correct one ?” 

“ I think there must have been an impediment ; 
you look so happy.” 

“Who wouldn’t, under the circumstances,” he 
laughs. “But you are a witch, Winnie. There was 
an impediment ; but it is dead and buried, and I 
have seen its grave !” 

His eyes have a fierce yellow gleam in them, and 
there is a triumphant sound in his voice. 

With an impulse I cannot resist I cry out : 

“Jim, you are talking of Mrs. ILaggerstone !” 

“ Don’t speak of that woman to me!” he cries ; 
and then adds, with a laugh, “What do I know of 
her?” 

I draw away from him. 

“If I am to be your wife, there must be no secrets 
between us. I have neither the right nor the wish 
to pry into your past life, but your future I am to 
share, and Mrs. Haggerstone has in a measure to 
enter into it ; therefore I feel that I must ask you 
about her before my life is irrevocably bound to 
yours.” 

“ I tell you she is dead,” he says, irritably. “ Why 
do you torture me about her now ?” 


180 


A PROUD DISHONOR . 


“ Why have you tortured me through her for so 
long? Remember, Jim, that though we have never 
had any understanding, y^pu have been my lover for 
nearly two years ; you have prevented my caring 
for anyone else by showing that you cared for me, 
and satisfying yourself that I was not indifferent to 
you. You know that I have not been happy. At 
times I would have given the world that we had 
never met. My love for you has been a misery, and 
you have known it without my telling you. Had 
you been able to put an end to it, you would a 
thousand times have done so. You owe me an 
explanation, and now is the time for you to make 
it.” 

He is silent ; I feel as if I were trembling on the 
brink of an abyss, and yet I am determined to under- 
stand everything now, or give him up forever. 

“ What makes you think that Mrs. Haggerstone 
had anything to do with it ?” he asks at last. 

“ You say that the impediment is dead and buried, 
and } T ou have seen its grave. Mrs. Haggerstone has 
lately died, and she died in Italy, to which country 
you have just paid a flying visit. Did I need more 
convincing proof, it would not be hard to find it. I 
traveled to Chicago with her ; you saw me off, and 
she talked incessantly of you. Under the guise of 
telling my fortune, she told me that there was an 
impediment in the way of our marriage which 
would soon be removed, thdugh not in the way you 
expected ; and now that she is dead, she leaves me a 
wedding portion, provided I marry you.” 

He starts to his feet. 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


181 


“My God ! Winnie, what does it mean?” 

“ That is for you to tell me,” I answer, gravely. 

He paces the room for a moment, and then comes 
back to me. 

“ Pshaw !” he says, as he resumes his seat ; “ isn’t 
she dead ! Haven’t I seen her grave, and talked to 
the doctor who attended her !” 

He throws his arms about me. 

“Winnie,” he says* “you startled me into betray- 
ing myself, and to make any further denials would 
be to lower myself in your esteem. Yes, my dar- 
ling, it was Mrs. Haggerstone who kept us apart. 
For months I have been trying to free myself of the 
bondage in which she held me. Her death has re- 
leased me ; but before I could claim you I had to 
convince myself that the report was correct, and 
that she was really dead.” 

“ But what ” 

He interrupts me. 

“ My darling, I have told you all that you need to 
know. She is dead, and will never trouble us more. 
Will you not spare me the long, painful story with 
which she is connected ? If it makes you unhappy 
not to know, you shall hear it ; but will you not 
spare me, and let it be buried with her ?” 

I cannot reply. He is asking me a great deal. I 
feel I ought to know the whole truth, and I want to 
know it. I look up at him with the intention of 
telling him I must know all. 

He is apparently not thinking of me. His face is 
drawn, and his eyes have a pained expression in 
them that tells me he is living over again some 


182 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


unhappy chapter in his life. I cannot ask him to 
tell me ; I have just promised to be a loving wife to 
him, and I cannot commence by paining him with 
my curiosity. 

“ I will trust you,” I say, at last. 

“My darling, my little comforter, I knew you 
would!” he says. “Forgive me that there is one 
passage in my life that I must keep from j^ou. It is 
nothing that can touch you or harm you. It is 
dead, Winnie, and our happiness rises, Phoenix-like, 
out of its ashes.” 

Suddenly he drops his grave tone and says, gayly : 

“ Well, when is it to be ?” 

“When is what to be?” 

“ Our wedding, to be sure ! I can’t wait very 
long. I have waited too long already. May it be 
next week ?” 

“Oh, Jim!” 

“ The week after ?” 

“You are absurd !” 

“ The end of this month, at latest.” 

“ Jim !” I say, flushing hotly, “ you are simply 
ridiculous ! I have not begun to think of any such 
thing yet.” 

“Well,” he says in his old, masterful way, “you 
had better begin to think of it at once. You’ll be 
Mrs. Macadam before the first of June, or I will 
know the reason why.” 

“ But what will Lottie say ?” 

“ I don’t care a bit !” he says, recklessly, throwing 
his arms around me. 

“Indeed !” says a freezing voice behind us. 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


183 


We turn, guiltily, to see Lottie standing in the 
doorway, the picture of virtuous indignation. 

“ May I inquire what this means ?” she says, loft- 
ily. “ You had better go to your room, dear ; and 
you, Mr. Macadam, will please explain.” 

Jim looks awfully uncomfortable. 

“We were talking over the date of our wedding.” 

“ What !” says Lottie, such a change coming over 
her face 

Then I make my escape, but am soon pursued by 
Lottie, who, amid smiles and tears, tells me that we 
will have a double wedding, for George has to go to 
Paris on business on the 19th, and they had already 
decided to be married on that morning, and make 
the journey their wedding-trip. 


184 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


MY DREAM. 


LL OUR preparations are made, even to laying 



the table for breakfast; and having discov- 
ered, to our horror, that the clock-hands point to 
two o’clock in the morning, we have bidden a hasty 
good-night to Cerulia, already half-scrubbed toward 
the morning, and dear old Mrs. Frayne, who has 
given the house entirely up to us. 

It is the eve of our wedding. At nine o’clock to- 
morrow our girlhood days will be over. We have 
not chosen this unearthly time because v^e could not 
v r ait a few hours longer, but because Lottie and 
George have to sail at twelve. 

Jim has taken some charming rooms for me at the 
Clarendon. He says that life is going to be one 
long honeymoon for us, now, and that we need not 
crowd all our enjoyment into the first few weeks. 

The other day he asked me, for his sake, not to 
touch Mrs. Haggerstone’s bequest, saying he did 
not wish me to be benefited by any person who had 
been his enemy, and asking me if I v r ould not like 
to give it as a wedding present to Lottie. Of course 
I v r as delighted, and I have a lovely surprise for her 
in the morning. George is not rich,^yet, and it will 
be a windfall to them. 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


185 


We are not going to have any bridemaids. 

My wedding-dress is the loveliest brown cloth ; 
Lottie’s is grey. 

Cerulia is to have a clean white gown, a present 
from Jim. 

There won’t be many people at the breakfast ; the 
Athertons, Jim’s cousin* and an uncle and aunt of 
mine. 


“Winnie! Winnie! Wake up! What’s the mat- 
ter, darling ?” 

I open my eyes and see Lottie bending over me. 

“What is it?” I cry, sitting up. 

“You’ve been dreaming, old lady,” says Lottie. 

It comes back to me. 

“ Oh, Lottie ; such a terrible dream !” I cry, shud- 
dering. “I thought I was walking with Jim in a 
lovely country lane, and a horrible snake came out 
of the hedge and sprung at us. In my fear I ran 
away, and the snake pursued me. I felt a touch on 
my shoulder, and as I turned I saw the snake 
change and become Mrs. Ilaggerstone. I struggled 
with her to get to Jim, but she laughed and held 
me back, crying, 4 It’s no use ; I have parted you !’ 
and then I awoke.” 

44 Or rather, I awoke you. In another minute you 
would have bounced through the wall.” 

44 But do you think the dream means anything ?” 

44 .No ! You had nightmare. Turn over and get to 
sleep again, or you will look a sight in the morning.” 

Lottie’s practical remarks soothe me as no amount 
of sympathy would, and following her advice, I am 


186 


A PROUD DISHONOR . 


soon in a sound slumber ; nor do I awake till Mrs. 
Frayne shakes me, telling me it is late, and that 
Cerulia is there with some coffee. 

What a merry half-hour we have, chatting with 
Mrs. Frayne! We have nothing to cry about, we 
are both marrying men we love, and we have no 
home to leave, so the unknown life before us has no 
shadows cast upon it. 

We delay so long that we have to dress with in- 
ordinate haste, and are only just ready when the 
first of the guests arrive, and Lottie and I bowl off 
to the church in Mrs. Atherton’s carriage. 

George and Jim are waiting for us at the church 
door, and I get so confused that, but for being 
promptly checked, I should have walked up to the 
altar with Jim, instead of allowing Uncle Edward 
the proud privilege of marching up the aisle with a 
blooming niece on either arm. 

I seem to be dreaming. It cannot be true that I 
am about to become Jim’s wife. 

I listen absently to the service. Whether the 
clergyman is contemplating a similar act, or has 
already perpetrated matrimony and regretted it, I 
cannot tell ; but certain it is that he reads with a 
deliberation and earnestness that double the solemn- 
ity, and imbues the ceremony with an air so serious 
that it becomes dreadful. As he rolls the sentences 
out, and pauses to let each one give the right amount 
of chill to our marrow, I get half-hysterical. I feel 
that I cannot possibly take this fatal step, and that 
I am wholly unfit to be kneeling here, taking these 
awful vows. 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


3 87 


The feeling communicates itself to Jim. I see 
him shuddering as the priest, with gruesome em- 
phasis, reads the exhortation, beginning : 

“ I require and charge you both, as ye will answer 
at the dreadful day of Judgment, when the secrets 
of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you 
know any impediment why ye may not lawfully be 
joined together in matrimony ye do now confess 
it.” 

There is a long, terrible pause. Jim glances fear- 
fully over his shoulder, and as he does so a low, 
mocking laugh echoes through the church. Jim 
starts violently, and turning away from the altar 
looks round in a nervous way. Everyone turns to 
see from whence the sound came. There is not a 
soul in the church but ourselves ! 

The organ-loft is empty, the nave occupied only 
with our own friends. Everybody looks at his 
neighbor. Jim’s face is ashy ; so is George’s ; so is 
Lottie’s ; so, I doubt not, is my own. 

I take a step away from the altar, and for a mo- 
ment it seems as if there would be no wedding; 
then the solemn voice of the priest breaks in again. 

‘‘Shall I proceed?” he asks. 

No one replies. He makes a movement to close 
his book, when Uncle Edward throws himself into 
the breach.* 

Uncle Edward has been married. too long, himself, 
to suffer from any nervous superstitions, and he is 
not the man to let the establishment of two pauper 
nieces be knocked on the head by a mere echo. 

“Certainly, certainly,” he says — “proceed at 


188 


A PROUD DISHONOR . 


once and forgetful of the place and the person, he 
adds, “My nieces have a steamer to catch.” 

The clergyman gives him a stony stare, the as- 
sembled guests smother a smile, and we turn back 
to the altar. , 

The clergyman, bent on revenge, or determined 
to do his duty, reads the exhortation again, and 
glancing at the gallery, waits. 

No sound comes this time, and the rest of the serv- 
ice is read without interruption. 

I hear the words, “ Those whom God hath joined 
together let no man put asunder,” and a happy feel- 
ing enters my heart. I am Jim’s wife now. We 
are one in the sight of God,, and no one shall put us 
asunder ! 


A PROUD DISHONOR . 


389 


. CHAPTER XX. 

MARRIED. 

W E HAYE been married a week, and in my 
opinion marriage is the one success of life. 
What a week ! It’s nonsense to say time passes 
quickly when }^ou’re happy. I’ve lived so much in 
this week that it seems centuries. 

Our rooms in the Clarendon are just perfect — 
filled with flowers, sunny, cozy. I haven’t a wish 
ungratified. 

We have been having delicious weather, and been 
making trips every where— -to Long Branch (Jim 
sa} T s I can have a cottage there or at Newport, next 
year, if I like), to Manhattan Beach ; but this time 
we dined en prince, with champagne, at the Man- 
hattan. Oh, dear ! how nice it is to be able to drink 
champagne, if you want it ! When I was a child, 
and made by my dear mother to eat cereals, I used 
to think what a great thing it must be to be grown 
up and able to eat bacon and eggs for breakfast ; 
now I realize that it is a fine thing to be grown up 
and married, and able to have everything nice to eat 
and drink without counting the cost all the while. 

Yesterday we went to the June meeting at Jerome 
Park. I enjoyed it immensely, but of course bet on 
the wrong horse all the time, and lost. 


190 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


We have started out for a morning walk down 
Fifth Avenue when Jim reminds me of it. 

“Do you know, Mrs. Macadam,” lie says, peering 
under my parasol, “ that you have certain debts of 
honor to pay ?” 

“ But I have no money !” 

“ You will have when I have paid you my debt of 
honor. I owe you five thousand dollars, Winifred.” 

“What for?” I cry. 

“For a certain little act of kindness you did me 
about Lottie’s wedding present. I have paid the 
amount into the First National Bank in your name, 
and so I think you will be able to pay your Jerome 
Park losses, and risk a little more at Sheepshead 
next week.” 

“ Jim !” I say, “ suppose I turn out a regular 
gambler ?” 

He stops and seizes my arm. The tigerish look 
that I saw once before in his eyes comes back. * 

“ If I thought that,” he cries, and seems about to 
say a great deal more, but relaxes his hold, and adds, 
gently, “ If only people would realize that half the 
cruel things said to them were spoken unconsciously, 
there would be very little quarreling in the world. 
You wounded me badly, little girl ; but here we are 
at the bank, so say no more about it.” 

In a few moments I have, signed my name, been 
presented with a check-book, and am standing out- 
side the bank with the dazed consciousness that I am 
a wealthy person. 

“ Now that you have so much money,” says Jim, 
“ suppose you go and spend some.” 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


191 


“ Oh, if only mother were here now !” 

He presses my hand. 

“ She would be glad to know that you were 
happy, so put away your sad thoughts and let us 
make holiday. Is there nothing there you want?” 

He stops before the Specialty Company’s window. 

“ Jim,” I say, after a slight pause, “ may 1 buy 
some writing-paper ?” 

“ Of course — the money is yours.” 

“But may I buy lots of writing-paper and have it 
initialed?” 

“You may buy anything in the world you want,” 
he answers, smiling. 

We enter, and for the first time in my life I am 
able to indulge my passion for writing-materials. I 
revel in it. I buy exquisite foreign paper on which 
to write to Lottie, cards for short notes, letter-paper 
for ordinary writing, and some tiny tinted sheets, in 
case I want to leave a message at any time for Jim. 

Then I am attracted to a lovely writing-cabinet, 
and a dozen other pretty and more or less useful 
trifles. Then paying-time comes, and I think I am 
going to have the satisfaction of writing my first 
check ; but Jim will none of it. 

“ This is a little extra wedding present,” he laughs, 
as we go out. “ But what now ? Have you any 
other secret longings to appease ? v 

I laugh guiltily and nod. 

“ What is this one ?” 

“ I should like to have lots of perfumes.” 

Jim’s eyes twinkle ; but he takes me to Hazard’s, 
and I revel in perfumes and the hundred and one 


192 


A PROUD DISHONOR 


delightful little toilet accessories that druggists take 
pride in mulcting their customers for. 

All my life I have longed to have all the writing- 
tilings and perfumery I wanted ; and as we leave 
Hazard’s it gives me the keenest pleasure to think 
of the big cut-glass toilet-bottles of which I am now 
the possessor, and which I can fill from the pints of 
perfumes to which Jim has treated me — for here, as 
before, he has not allowed me to pay. 

Outside the store he says : 

“ Where now ?” 

“ Home !” I answer ; for I have insisted at both 
stores on the things being sent by special messenger, 
and I want to be on hand to receive my treasures 
and gloat over them. 

“What ! You are not through ?” Jim cries. 

“Yes. I don’t know of another thing I want.” 

“But,” he says, aghast, “don’t you want any 
bonnets or dresses ?” 

“ Am I shabby ?” I query. 

“Hot a bit.” 

“ Then what do I want clothes for 1” 

“ I thought every woman wanted new dresses.” 

“ This one doesn’t.” 

“ Ho you mean to tell me you are not going to 
give yourself as much as a hat ?” 

“Ho !” 

“ Hor a visit to Tiffany’s ?” 

“ Ho !” 

“ And your extravagance began and ended with 
writing-materials and perfumes ?” 

“Yes!” 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


193 


“Well, you are the most extraordinary woman I 
ever met ! You need reforming.” 

My reformation begins with becoming the posses- 
sor of lots of pretty jewelry, and promising to go 
this very afternoon to consult a Fifth Avenue 
Madam on the subject of gowns. Then we start up- 
town. The sun is fearfully strong, and I make 
some remarks about the heat. 

“Yes,” says Jim, “ I think New York is getting a 
trifle too warm. We must start on our honeymoon 
— or our ‘ moonlight,’ as the foreigner called it.” 

“ Where shall we go ?” I ask, delightedly. 

“ Have you ever been on a driving tour ?” 

I laugh at the remark, but answer, gravely : 

“ Often.” 

He is disappointed. 

a Oh! Then it would be nothing new to you! 
We will have to change our plans, unless you don’t 
happen to know this section of the country. Where 
have you been ?” 

“ From the Battery to Central Park.” 

He stops short and laughs. 

“ Pve a good mind to shake you for that.” 

“ Well, the idea of asking me such silly questions! 
What was I going to ride in, and what was going to 
pull me ?” 

“ Would } r ou like to go?” 

“Would I !” 

“ I’ve been thinking that we would get a horse 
and carriage and drive up to Albany, stopping at 
the camp at Peekskill, at West Point, going over to 
Catskill, and coming down by the boat.” 


194 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


“ It would be delicious !” 

Jim hails a hansom. 

u To Brewster’s,” he says. 

My eyes open wide. 

“ Are you,” I begin, and stop short, amazed. 

“ I am going to buy you the best carriage Brew- 
ster has.” 

Imagine my pride as I alight at the costly door, 
ascend the steps trodden by millionaires, and feel 
that I am on the same errand as the millionaires. 

We go over the first floor, but nothing pleases me 
much. I am much embarrassed by being consulted 
all the time, and my ideas on the carriage question 
are very limited. I never imagined that I should 
own a carriage, so have never given the subject 
serious thought, and the fugitive ideas I have had 
in the transit from Twenty-fifth to Forty -second 
Street have been simply that I should like the car- 
riage to be roomy, and upholstered in green ; and as 
I glance at the vehicles around me I think, furttuer, 
that I should like lamps, and silver on the harness. 
I am therefore quite dumb, and hear Jim and the 
man talk side-bar buggies and things. 

At last we go upstairs, and see buggies by the 
score. I, however, obstinately refuse to like them. 
They look to me like a child’s coffin on wheels, and 
I would not ride in one for anything. 

When Jim and the man are beginning to get 
hopeless with me for refusing to like" anything I see, 
and not being able to describe what it is I do want, 
the man comes to my rescue. 

“ I think it is a phaeton the lady wants,” he says, 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


195 


and leads us down to the basement, where I see the 
carriage I like — green cloth, lamps, and all. 

“ If I buy that, you will have to drive. It’s a 
lady’s carriage,” Jim whispers. 

I am a little alarmed; but Jim gives me no time 
to change my mind, but buys it there and then. 

“ How for a horse,” he says, as we are going 
home. “ If you are to do the driving, my little mare 
Pixie won’t do. I keep her up at Esselmont’s, and 
we will go up there and see if he has anything to 
sell.” 

Immediately after lunch we set off. Jim has 
telegraphed for the mare to meet us at One Hundred 
and Fifty-fifth Street, and after a short but pretty 
drive we reach Esselmont’s. 

“We will go in the back way,” says Jim. “It is 
prettier than by Jerome Avenue and after a 
lovely drive along such a lane as I had no idea 
existed in the vicinity of Hew York, we turn under 
an archway into a sort of farm-yard. 

Here I find my husband is well acquainted ; and, 
further, that years ago, before those sad five }^ears 
when he disappeared from all his friends, Jim had 
been the owner of some very fast trotters, and was 
a very well-known man on the club grounds. 

He makes known his desires to the head groom. 

The man shakes his head. 

“ We’ve nothing that will suit you, Mr. Macadam. 
In fact, we only have a couple of horses for sale — a 
young mare that will be a corker and beat Maud S., 
if she don’t break down ; a regular bundle of nerves, 
and no good for a lady ; wasted off the tracks. The 


196 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


other I’m trying to find a good home for ; he’ll 
make a nice old lady’s horse. We’ve known him, 
colt and horse, these twenty years. He was foaled 
right here in our own stable, and a dandy he’s been. 
Many’s the seven-year-old he could give points to 
to-day ; but he’s getting old, and he wants a good 
home, where they’ll give him ten miles a day and 
think they’re killing him with work.” 

“ He sounds nice,” I suggest, mildly. 

The groom looks me over. 

“Mr. Macadam don’t want to be spending money 
on a twenty-year-old horse,” he says, disdainfully. 

Jim is gathering in the reins, as though to depart, 
when a stableman passes leading a handsome bay, 
with black points, which to my uninitiated eyes 
looks a perfect beauty. He has a coat like satin, a 
long black mane and tail, and the gentlest face. As 
the boy leads him, the horse rubs his head against 
the boy and playfully licks him. 

“ What a darlihg !” I cry. “ That’s the sort of 
horse I would like !” 

“That’s the horse I was talking of,” says the 
groom. 

In an instant I am out of the dog-cart and patting 
the old horse, who looks on me with evident favor, 
taking some grass out of my hand, and licking me 
gratefully for it. 

“ What is his name ?” I ask the boy. 

“ Jacob, Ma’am.” 

“Jim, I want you to buy me Jacob.” 

Jim comes to me and proceeds to look him over, 
which proceeding appears to consist of pommeling 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


197 


him and punching him in odd spots, to see if he will 
jump. 

“ Oh, he’s as sound as a bell,” the groom says. 
“Lots of work in him, but not the sort of horse you 
ought to have, Mr. Macadam.” 

“Well, if Mrs. Macadam wants to have him?” 
Jim says, and laughs. 

The groom laughs, too. 

“Are you quite sure you want old Jake?” Jim 
says, provokingly. 

“His name is Jacob, not Jake,” I answer, crossly, 
“ and I do want him very much.” 

“Very well, then, wait here for me;” and Jim 
goes into the house, the groom leaving me to con- 
template my new acquisition. 

The perfumes and stationery pale into the veriest 
insignificance beside this new wonder, which is to be 
all my own. Fancy me, the poor Winifred Ten 
Eyck of a week ago, owning horse-flesh, and ready 
to quarrel with her husband because he doesn’t think 
this wonderful locomotive stylish enough for her ! 
The idea ! when a few weeks back a darky’s mule 
would have been a wonder to me ! 

Jim’s voice breaks my reverie. 

“ Can you be ready to start the day after to-mor- 
row ?” he is asking ; and when I say I can, I hear 
the delightful mandate to have the horse sent down 
to the stables at Fifty- fifth Street the next day, and 
I go home the proudest woman in America. 


198 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


CHAPTER XXL 


A WET DAY S WORK. 


WET DAY!” says Jim, despairingly, as he 



draws up the blinds of our sitting-room at the 
Getty House, Yonkers. “Whatever shall we do 
with ourselves ?” 

The question is rather a serious one, for since our 
marriage this is the first wet day we have encoun- 
tered. 

We have been terribly busy the last two days, 
preparing for our start. Jim has engaged a groom 
to send ahead with our luggage, and secure our 
rooms, and take charge of the horse ; and I have 
been principally buying trunks, in which to store the 
presents which Jim showers upon me. 

Our future plans. are very undecided; but from 
the fact that Jim is constantly sending home such 
little gifts as chairs and tables, it looks as if the 
dearest wish of my heart were to be gratified, and 
that on our return we shall go to housekeeping. 

We have been so enthusiastic about our trip, and 
have only driven as far as Yonkers to be ready for 
a start in the morning, that Jim’s, exclamation is 
very disappointing. 

He seems so inconsolable that I feel quite selfish 
when I recall that deep down in my traveling-bag I 


A PROUD DISHONOR . 


199 


have a novel as yet uncut, and a ball of silk and 
some knitting-needles, with which I hope eventually 
to evolve a pair of socks for Jim; so the day has no 
terrors for me. 

When breakfast is over, Jim seems so depressed 
that I don’t like to fetch my work for fear of ap- 
pearing as selfish as I feel, so I try to get him 
amused. 

“ Wouldn’t you like the paper?” I say, handing it" 
to him. 

“ Not this morning,” he says, sighs fearfully, and 
glances out of the window. 

What would you like to do, dear ?” I ask, trying 
to be unselfish. 

“ I don’t know,” says Jim, hopelessty ; “we can’t 
go out.” 

We relapse into silence. I begin to feel what an 
awful thing it is to have a man on one’s hands on a 
wet day. 

“ Would you like to play piquet orcribbage?” I 
suggest, trying my best to conceal my hope that he 
will refuse. 

“ If you care about cards, darling, I will play,” he 
says, looking awfully dismal, and searching in his 
satchel for the cribbage-board. 

“ I don’t care to play very much,” I say, and we 
relapse into silence again. 

At last Jim rises, and going to the table draws 
pen and paper to him and calls me. As I seat my- 
self he produces a pair of pocket-compasses, . and 
drawing some intricate figure, hands it to me and 
asks if I can do the same. 


200 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


I am at first mystified. I cannot think what in 
the world he is after, and with difficulty restrain my 
laughter as he covers sheet after sheet of paper with 
strange beasts that he terms cats, and dogs, and 
pigs. He seems amused, however; and as my one 
desire is that he should be entertained, I stifle m} T 
yawns, and appear vitally interested in his work. 

At last the strange beasts are exhausted, and he is 
* apparently at the end of the stock of puzzles and 
misspelt words which had succeeded them, and I am 
wondering how on earth I am going to keep up my 
flagging interest, when the clock strikes. 

“ Only ten o’clock !” I say, and hurry to the win- 
dow to conceal an irrepressible yawn. 

Jim hears my exclamation. 

“ I am afraid I have shown you all the puzzles I 
know,” he says, apologetically. “ I don’t know any- 
thing else to do, unless Oh, yes! There’s the 

five-cent puzzle ! That would surely amuse you for 
ten minutes, and by that time perhaps I will have 
thought of something else.” 

A light breaks in upon me. 

“Jim,” I say, “do you think vou are amusing 
me?” 

He looks up at me in the most offended way. 

“ I have been trying very hard to do so for the 
last half-hour,” he says. 

I burst out laughing. 

“ Why, you stupid old sweetheart, I was never so 
horribly bored in my life ! I submitted to the in- 
fliction because I thought you were enjoying 
it !” 


A PROUD DISHONOR . 


201 


“ I have been wanting to read my paper and write 
some letters,” Jim says, with the air of a resigned 
martyr. 

“And I have a most tempting novel and some 
knitting that I am very anxious to get at.” 

Jim looks up at me. 

“ Have I been making a fool of myself ?” 

“ As near an approach to it as so very clever a 
person could make !” 

Jim says no more and we settle ourselves to our 
separate enjoyments, and the rainy morning passes 
away and afternoon succeeds before we have time 
to think of dullness. 

When, at last, the weather clears, it is a little too 
late in the day to think of seeing the country or 
driving on to another place, so we make up our 
minds to stay where we are for the night. It is 
only raining very slightly, so we send for Jacob and 
“the phaeton and go out for a little air. 

I suppose I am a trifle crazier than the rest of the 
world, but I have a perfect passion for the rain, and 
to drive in the rain is bliss untold. I love the smell 
of the damp earth ; I love the rain-drops hanging on 
the leaves ; I love the way each insignificant fernlet 
or blade of grass holds up its head for its share of 
the good things ; and so I take no heed of the few 
drops that are falling as we start, but give Jacob a 
flick with the whip, and we are off. 

We have decided to drive toward Hew York, as 
we shall be going the other way to-morrow, so set 
out along the avenue westward. 

I find I have a decided talent for what Jim calls 


202 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


“ nosing out ” by-roads, and yesterday brought him 
up through woods he never knew existed. I am as 
yet a little undecided whether I drive Jacob or he 
drives me. He is certainly the easiest horse to 
manage, and I feel a little red and guilty each time 
Jim compliments me on the masterly way I pass a 
wagon or avoid a stone ; for, to confess, it is J acob 
who passes or avoids. When anything is coming, he 
curves away to the right with a grace and precision 
worthy of his years. I have made a mental note 
never to let Jim drive my old pet, and preserve the 
strictest silence on the subject of my friend’s accom- 
plishments. We turn off into a narrow, tree-shaded 
road, which is dotted here and there with charming 
houses, situated in trim, luxurious, gardeners’ gar- 
dens, and with lawns sloping to the shores of the 
lovely Hudson. 

“ That’s a fine place,” says Jim, as we mount a 
steep hill and turn off into another by-lane. 

“ Too fine,” I object. “ Those people just live to 
oblige their gardeners. I hate all that carpet-bed- 
ding and Ilenderson’s-catalogue sort of garden. The 
sort of place I like is one that looks as though the 
mistress did the weeding and the master trained the 
creepers ; where the good, old-fashioned flowers are 
blooming side by side, each with its own individual- 
ity preserved; where the balsam does its best to 
show the meaner plants what balsams can be, and 
the salvia, no longer an accompaniment to the 
canna (like mint-sauce to lamb), throws out its scar- 
let mysteries in proud abundance ; where the rose- 
bud cries ‘ Pluck me!’ and the nasturtium runs riot, 


I 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


203 


while the sweet-pea thinks out the color of its next 
bloom, and the zinnia leisurely deepens its tint.” 

“My darling!” cries Jim, “you must have just 
such a garden and right out in the open the fond 
fellow kisses me. 

We turn off into another road. A whiff of the 
most delicious perfume greets us. 

“This is Elysium!” cries Jim. 

The road on either side is bordered with honey- 
suckle in full bloom, and emitting its own inimitable 
odor. In a moment Jim is out of the carriage, 
gathering handfuls of the fragrant flowers. 

“What a delicious place ! Who would ever think 
we were so near New York ! I really think I would 
like to live here,” I cry. 

“Let us look for a house, then,” says Jim, half in 
a joke. 

We drive on. The road is now beautifully kept, 
bordered everywhere with honeysuckle hedges, and 
beautiful beyond description in the humid atmos- 
phere ; but it is too trim to please me. 

It is one large park — one huge estate, all groomed 
and gardened, and painted, till it is fit to be put on 
the stage for a fancy picture. 

We turn off through some lodge gates on to a 
high road, and winding round a bit, enter a lane, but 
this time a real country lane. 

The birds are singing here; over the way in the 
park we have just left there was silence. Probably 
it is not feathered etiquette for the wild birds to 
trespass in those cultivated precincts, but here in 
this wooded lane they are holding high carnival. 


204 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


Who says the American birds can’t sing as well 
as the English ? They don’t sing like them, for the 
English birds are all melancholy, long-haired poets, 
who recall to you all your griefs and grievances, all 
your sorrows and despairs, and, while they entrance 
you, make you morbid and unhappy. 

The American birds, on the contrary, are of a 
jovial turn — little comedians, who crack their jokes, 
tell their funny stories, and say to you, “ W e’re glad 
we’re alive ; aren’t you ?” 

They greet us as we enter the lane, and distinctly 
ask us if we don’t think Bohemia better than Mur- 
ray Hill. 

Oh, what a lovely lane ! 

“ If the other was Elysium,” I ask Jim, “ what is 
this ?” 

“ Paradise !” he responds. 

Jacob picks his way carefully, for we are de- 
scending a little hill, and Jacob is a very cautious 
beast. We pass a very fine house set back in the 
trees, English fashion, and suddenly come upon a 
miniature wood. Tall trees raise their branches to 
the sky, and at their roots nestle ferns, and Solo- 
mon’s seals, and creeping J ennies. In the middle a 
little brook babbles through, and as we are admiring 
it the setting sun bursts through the clouds, and 
shines redly through boles and leafage. 

“ How beautiful ! How beautiful !” we cry in a 
breath ; and then Jim exclaims : 

“By Jove! Winnie, that’s apart of the garden 
belonging to this quaint old house !” 

We descend the hill, and sure enough, Jim is right. 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


205 


By the edge of the road is a high bank, with a 
low rail-fence on top, over which tiger-lilies peer and 
creepers peep ; then there is a walk ; then a high 
bank, with flower-beds and a fountain ; and then 
comes the house — a quaint, gabled place, with a 
huge veranda and the rooms built out over it. In 
the center, above the porch, is a curious oriel- win- 
dow, with roses creeping up to it and encircling it ; 
and rising behind it all, the lovely woodland we saw 
a moment ago. 

“ Oh, Jim !” I cry, “ what a lovely place ! How I 
wish w T e lived here! And oh, Jim, do get out and 
get me some of those tiger-lilies !” 

He is out of the carriage in a moment. 

“ I’ll go and ask for them,” he says, “ for it strikes 
me that if we lived here we would not like strangers 
plucking our flowers.” 

He goes round to the house, but in a second re- 
turns flowerless, but with a curious smile on his 
face. 

“Winnie,” he sa}^s, “would you like to get out 
and inspect the premises ? The house is to be let 
furnished for the summer, and the owner is trying 
to sell it.” 

In a moment I am turning Jacob round, a per- 
formance which in less exciting moments is full of 
terrors for me, and driving in at the gate which I 
am determined shall soon be my own. I gaze with 
an air of proprietorship at the lilac hedge on the 
one side and the spruces on the other, pull up in 
front of the fountain, and am soon standing in the 
square hall. 


206 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


It is a charming house, and ere we leave it I have 
portioned out the rooms, secured the one with the 
bay-window for my own especial den, and Jim has 
feed the janitor to say the house is let, if anyone 
comes to see it before we return. 

How I rattle poor Jacob over the roads back ! 
How I send Jim flying off to the agent, and how 
impatient I am till he returns and tells me he has 
hired the house for the four months, with the op- 
tion of buying it if he likes it ! 

We spend another two days in Yonkers. I hunt 
up our old servant Mary, and establish her, with her 
sister, at “ The Gables,” which is the name of our 
new home, to clean it and put all in order for our 
return. Jim has our trunks and traps sent up from 
the storage; and then, having put the vegetable 
garden and the lawns in the hands of a gardener, 
whom I dare to do more than weed the flower beds 
till I return (for “ The Gables ” garden is the garden 
of my dreams), we set forth on our trip, to be gone 
about two weeks, by which time we expect all to be 
in readiness. 


/ 


A PROUD DISHONOR . 


207 


CHAPTER XXII. 

AT HOME. 

T THOUGHT I was happy before, but I have 
X come to the conclusion that I had no idea what 
the word meant till now, now that I have my own 
home ! 

We have been settled about four days, and every 
hour brings out some fresh charm in house, garden, 
or situation. Indeed, the happiness is so perfect 
that it seems unreal. I find myself wondering if it 
is all a dream and I shall awake amid the old, storm- 
tossed life again. 

The house proves a perfect gem, and a regular 
bower of roses. They climb over the walls, and 
hang in creamy clusters at each window, begging 
to be plucked, crowding out the honeysuckle that 
puts in its claim for a sunny spot to grow in. They 
grow in stately bushes on the lawn, and climb all 
over the arbors. 

The Athertons are coming to us next week, and 
we are talking over our plans. 

“ Whatever shall we do with them, Jim?” I ask. 
“ The days are all right, but I am afraid they will 
want no end of amusing in the evening.” 

a Oh, we’ll do anything. By and by I’ll get a 
billiard table— we’ve lots of room.” 


A PROUD DISHONOR . 


208 

“But until it comes?” 

“You must give little parties.” 

“ To whom ?” 

“ My dear, simple little Winnie, every neighbor- 
hood has its neighbors, and there seem to be some 
pretty nice places about here.” 

“ But nobody has called upon us yet ?” 

“Give them time! We have been here exactly 
four days; but when the folks find out that we are 
negotiating for the purchase of the place, and that 
we are not summerers, they are sure to call.” 

“But, Jim, do you think anyone will call?” 

I am standing over one of the pretty tables in the 
drawing-room, arranging a great bunch of damask 
roses I have just brought in from the garden. Jim 
is on the veranda. 

He rises and leans on the window-frame. 

“ Why should they not ?” he asks. 

A sudden fear takes possession of me. I go to 
him and nestle closely to him. 

“Because, Jim, because ” 

“Well?” 

“ Because everybody knows everything about 
everybody, nowadays, and they won’t want to call 
on me.” 

“Why?” 

“I’ve been a professional singer, Jim!” 

“ Wife,” he says, tenderly, “you’ve been the brav- 
est woman in all the world ! I am proud of your 
past, and don’t mean to make any attempt at hiding 
it. When people see in what love and respect your 
husband holds you they will honor you, as he does.” 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


209 


My reply is not on record, and I go back to my 
roses. Jim follows me, and while I am busy filling 
a lovely old bowl, which I unearthed this morning, 
he ornaments my white gown with such of the 
glcrtving flowers as I will allow him to steal. He is 
adorning me much in the same lavish fashion as a 
May Mary, and has just finished by putting a couple 
of roses behind my ear, when the door-bell rings 
loudly. 

“ Visitors !” I say, horrified. “ What shall I do?” 
and I begin to tug at the flowers. 

“ Stay just as you are. If it is anyone, they’ll 
think you’ve just come in from the garden. Here, 
put this on.” 

With scant ceremony he claps his own straw hat 
on my head ; and I, who had intended making such 
a dignified impression on the world of Mosholu, 
stand blushing and confused, with rumpled hair and 
flower-decked gown, as the door is opened and Mary 
hands me some cards. 

I have just time to read “ Mrs. Richardson and 
the Misses Kichardson,” “ Mr. Gerard Richardson,” 
when they are before me. 

Mrs. Richardson is thin, small, old and kindly ; 
the Misses Richardson are thin, small, elderly and 
gushing ; and Mr. Gerard Richardson is young, very 
handsome and very well dressed ; so much I take in 
at a glance. 

They greet Jim as an old acquaintance. Then 
Mrs. Richardson steps back a few feet and surveys 
me, and ti/eh flutters across to Jim, who does not 
seem to have the faintest idea who she is. 


210 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


“ The moment we heard your name,” she says, 
“ we thought it must be our old acquaintance, and 
we lost no time in coming to call on you. You don't 
remember us? Not the old lady with the daughter 
who played the big fiddle? ¥e met at Pau, don’t 
you remember ? And how is your dear wife ? This 
is your daughter, I suppose. How are you, my dear?” 

The old lady takes my hand ; the little, thin 
daughters also take my hand. One says : 

“ What a charming picture !” 

The other : 

“ What a divine harmony !” 

“ You must not mind them, my dear,” the old lady 
says. “ One fiddles and the other sculpts, but they’re 
nice enough girls in their way. You must be great 
friends with us, dear, for your nice mother’s sake. 
Is she at home ?” 

“My mother !” I say, and look round at Jim for 
an explanation. 

He is saying something in an undertone to Mr. 
Richardson, and looks worried. 

“ I understand,” I hear Mr. Richardson say, and 
he comes forward. 

“You are making a mistake, Mother,” he says. 
“ This is Mr. Macadam. The people you were think- 
ing of were called Mac Mac Macpherson.” 

Then to me he says : 

“You must excuse my mother. We have been 
traveling so much, and have met so many people, that 
she gets confused sometimes.” 

The old lady bridles 

“ I am sure the name was Macadam,” she says. 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


211 


u We met Mrs. Macadam again, after, at Monaco, 
where she played so much. Don’t you remember 
how I said I wished her husband were with her to 
stop her, because people were beginning to talk 
about her ?” 

I look over at Jim. He is pale and nervous. 

“Yes, I remember,” Mr. Richardson says. “ But 
that was Mrs. Macpherson. It was in Paris we met 
Mr. Macadam. Wasn’t it, Anna ?” 

Anna looks short-sightedly at Jim a moment. 

“ Yes, I believe it was.” 

“May be,” says the old lady, unconvinced; “but 
I’ve got it all down in my diary. I’ll look it up 
when I get home.” 

There is an interchange of glances between the 
two men. 

“What’s the use of troubling, Mother ? It was in 
Paris we met Mr. Macadam. Don’t you remember 
his bringing Anna a photographic collection of the 
sculptures in the Louvre ?” 

“How, I thought that was Mr. Macpherson !” says 
the old lady. 

“ It was Mr. Macadam,” says Anna, 

Mr. Richardson and my husband exchange glances 
full of meaning, and then both look at me. What 
can it mean ? 

The daughters are seated one on each side of me. 

“So you are Mrs. Macadam?” the old lady says. 
“ I took you for a child.” 

“ A bride ?” says Anna. 

“The poet’s dream of summer,” says the other 
sister. 


212 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


I fancy they are poking fun at my appearance, so 
make an apology. 

“ Don’t, my dear,” says Mrs. Richardson: “my 
daughters like it.” 

“ It’s so unconventional,” they sigh. 

“Have you a talent?” asks the irrepressible old 
lady. 

“ I don’t think so,” I answer. 

“ My dear, thank God for it ! It’s a« dreadful 
thing to be gifted !” 

“ I think it must be lovely.” 

“ That’s a mistaken notion. When God gives 
talent He takes away common sense. How, my girls 
are gifted. Anna chips away, and now and then 
gets something into the Academy ; but what good 
has it done her ? It hasn’t got her a husband. If 
she had had one ounce of common sense she could 
have married years ago. And Louisa, too — she 
didn’t even know enough to tell when to leave off 
fiddling !” 

“I am afraid my wife has a talent, though,” Jim 
says, joining in. “ She sings.” 

“Well, you must be fond of music,” the old lady 
says. 

“ I wasn’t till I met my wife.” 

“ She converted you ?” says Louisa. “ Ah !” and 
she heaves a sigh. 

“ Louisa is thinking of the young man she tried 
to convert,” says the old lady. “ He came to pro- 
pose to her, and before she would let him speak she 
made him listen to a Jiundred and forty-seven com- 
binations of the chord of the seventh, on her big 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


213 


fiddle. When she got to forty-seven he asked her- 
if she hadn’t done tuning up ; when she got to the 
hundredth he was asleep ; and when he awoke he 
left the house, and that was the last we saw of him !” 

“Ah!” sighs Louisa, “what an escape from a 
gross spirit !” 

Then they rise to go. 

“ Come and see us quite soon,” says the old lady. 
“We are near neighbors; our property joins this, 
and we must be great friends.” 

As the door closes on them, and they drive away, 
I question Jim. 

“ What did she mean about meeting you at Pau, 
and with your wife ?” 

Jim is not in his usual spirits. 

“ She is a stupid old woman,” he says, angrily. 
“ Doesn’t know her grandmother from a breeze-mill, 
or a hawk from a hand-saw. Every Macanything she 
meets she fancies she saw at Pau, with his wife. 
It’s her mania, her son says.” 

“Oh, was that what you were talking to him 
about?” 

“ You were watching us, were you ?” 

“ Yes. Were you ever at Pau, Jim ?” 

“ Yes, I’ve been there.” 

“ Did you meet the Eichardsons there ?” 

“ My child, did not you hear the son say that we 
met in Paris ?” 

“ Oh, Jim, how cross you are !” 

“Not more cross than you are importunate.” 

Taking his hat, he makes a hasty exit, leaving me 
alone — snubbed ! 


214 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


CHAPTEE XXIII. 

“i HAtE FOUND YOU OUT.” 

BOUT a month has gone by, and, thanks to the 



l \ Eichardsons, we have been called on by every- 
body, far and near. All the Park have left cards, 
we have given a dinner party, and been able to make 
things pleasant for the Athertons. Now, they hav- 
ing gone, we are settling down to our quiet home 
life ; for after the dinner to-night at the Eichard- 
sons we have no gayety in prospect beyond a few 
little lawn parties. 

Jim is out fishing, and I am just returning from 
lunching with him in the lovely little wooded lane 
beside the stream, when, as I am nearing home, I 
see Gerard Eichardson and a lady — one of his 
sisters, I presume. 

I pull up and wait; I have grown to like the 
Eichardsons very much, and Gerard and Jim are 
great friends. They intended fishing together to- 
day, only at the last moment young Eichardson 
sent an excuse — he had an important appointment, 
he said. 

I intend to chaff him for his laziness, and wait for 
him to get up to me. He has rounded the bend in 
the road before I have time to see that the lady with 
him is not his sister, but a stranger, and a mysteri- 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


215 


ous stranger, too, for she is so closely veiled it is im- 
possible to see her face. There is, however, a some- 
thing in her carriage and figure that is very familiar 
to me. 

As they get near enough to recognize me they 
pause in the middle of the pathway. With a sud- 
den impulse the lady darts forward to meet me. 
Mr. Eichardson stands irresolute a moment, then 
with a few hurried strides overtakes her, grasps her 
arm, forces her off the path in among the trees, and 
in a moment they are lost to sight. 

Not a word is spoken on either side, and yet there 
is something so strange in it all that a vague feeling 
of alarm steals over me. 

I put Jacob to his best speed, and arrive home in 
such a state of nervous agitation that I determine to 
send an excuse to the Eichardsons and not go to 
dinner. 

When Jim comes in, I tell him. He laughs at 
me for a simpleton, and overrules my wish to re- 
main at home. Nevertheless it is with a heavy 
heart, and a crushing sense of impending evil, that I 
dress myself and start away. 

The Eichardsons own the English-looking house I 
noticed, driving down the lane. To-night their 
avenue, is lighted with Chinese lanterns, and carriage 
after carriage is rolling to the door. It is old Mrs. 
Eichardson’s birthday, and consequently a gala 
occasion. 

The weight that is on my spirits refuses to be 
lifted even by the brilliancy of the scene and com- 
pany, and it is a relief to me when dinner is an- 


216 


A PROUD DISHONOR 


nounced and Mr. .Richardson offers me his arm, for 
I feel that we are so much farther on in the enter- 
tainment. 

The dinner passes dully'enough. Mr. Richardson 
does not mention our meeting in the woods ; but that 
is not remarkable, for he hardly addresses a word to 
me, and impresses me with being very ill at ease. 

When we are in the drawing-room again, and the 
gentlemen have joined us, some one asks me for 
some music, and young Richardson, in a very pointed 
manner, adds his request to the others. So far I . 
have been singularly lucky, and have never been 
asked to sing. The Park has so many singing 
young ladies of its own that it does not seek for any 
more, but obliges the surrounding country. It 
makes up a choral society and a volunteer choir ; and 
so, without any effort at concealment on my part, 
the subject of singing has .never been alluded to. 

When, however, young Richardson approaches me 
in this very marked style, I feel that the cat has 
been let out of the bag somehow. 

“ Mrs. Macadam must favor us !” he says ; and 
turning to some .ladies with whom I have been talk- 
ing, adds : “ I find we have a very noted vocalist 
with us, and it has taken us nearly a month to dis- 
cover her.” 

I look at him, and catch a glance that is full of 
angry determination. 

I can’t understand his 1 manner at all. He must 
have taken too much wine. He is evidently bent on 
making a scene. But why ? I have nothing to be 
ashamed of. I look round for Jim. He is not in 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 21? 

the room. I won’t be baited without him at hand 
to protect me, so I answer, coldly : 

“ I am afraid I cannot sing to-night.” 

“We will hear no excuses,” says Mr. Richardson 
with forced gayety. 

“ No, indeed ; pray sing for us,” the rest chorus ; 
and finding I can’t get out of it, I yield. 

I sit down to the piano with the intention of sing- 
ing very badly, to defeat Mr. Richardson’s purpose, 
and then it occurs to me that by doing so I shall 
show him that I am anxious to avoid being known ; 
so bracing myself for the effort, I sing, and sing my 
best. 

A perfect storm of thanks greets me as I finish. 
I look at Mr. Richardson. He is leaning on the 
piano, gazing intently at me. He makes me so 
nervous; that I let my fan and gloves fall as I am 
taking them from the piano. He stoops down and 
restores them to me ; and is it fancy, or do I catch 
a whisper : 

“Enjoy your triumph ; I shall not disturb you to- 
night.” 

I look at him. There is a distinct meaning in his 
eyes, and I know it was not fancy. 

I am overwhelmed with entreaties for another 
song, and when that is done, for yet another. At 
last I rise from the piano, and appealing to Mr. 
Richardson, who has never moved from his place, 
ask him to take me where it is cooler and get me 
some water. 

He offers me his arm and we move away. 

“Will the veranda suit you?” 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


ns 

“ Perfectly.” 

We step out upon it and are alone. 

I turn and face him. He is regarding me with a 
bold stare that is intolerable. 

“ You are not very faint,” he says with a cynical 
smile. “I surmise you wanted a few moments’ 
private conversation.” 

“Exactly,” I answer, fiercely. “ I wanted to ask 
you what you meant by the words you had the 
audacity to whisper.” 

“You take a high tone, he says, laughing. “As 
if you need an explanation !” 

“ I demand it !” I say, haughtily. 

He wheels round. 

“You do? Well, you shall have it. I have found 
you out !” 

“ My dear sir, you have discovered a mare’s nest. 
I am not a bit ashamed of having been a profes- 
sional singer, and my husband is proud of it.” 

“Your husband!” he says, with a sneer. 

“We have attempted no concealment whatever. 
My husband wished for none. Will you be good 
enough to have our carriage called ? 1 wish to go 

home. My hpsband will call on you in the morning 
for an explanation.” 

“Your husband again!” he says, sardonically. 
“ How long have you been married ?” 

“What right have you to ask?” 

“ Never mind. Answer me.” 

He grasps my wrists until they pain me, and I am 
weak enough to answer him. 

“Seven weeks.” 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


219 


He laughs. 

“ You chose Mosholu as a quiet place where you 
would not be recognized ?” he asks. 

I get furious — beside myself — with rage. 

“You are a coward!” I say. “You think I am 
afraid — that I will submit to your brutality, lest you 
should tell people who I was ! But I don’t care one 
atom ! Go in and tell them, if you like. I will go 
with you ; I have some one there who will protect 
me. You forget I am a wife !” 

He laughs again, scornfully. 

“You are strangely audacious,” he says, “or 

else My God! I may have wronged you!” 

Then he goes on, feverishly : “ Madam, I beg you, I 
entreat you, to bear with me a moment longer. 
There may be a mistake ; you may have been con- 
founded with some one else. I beg you answer my 
questions. I have the most urgent reasons for ask- 
ing them — reasons which affect your husband 
strongly.” 

His manner impresses me, and that shadow which 
always hangs over my husband’s past causes me to 
listen to him. Call it curiosity, if you will, but I 
cannot help it. 

“ What do you wish to ask me ?” I say. 

“Did you know your husband long before you 
were married ?” 

“About two years.” 

He starts. 

“May I ask you where you met him?” 

“At Mrs. Messerole’s, in New York ; and after at 
Mrs. Atherton’s, in Madison.” 


220 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


“ And where were you married ?” 

“ At the Church of the Heavenly Kest. My sister 
was married at the same time.” 

He looks me straight in the face. His eyes are 
soft, and full of kindly light. He takes my hand and 
kisses it. 

“ poor child ! Oh, forgive me ! I knew in my 
heart that you were all that was sweet, and pure, and 
true.” 

“ Am I de trop ?' ” says a voice behind us. 

It is Jim ! 

Gerard Kichardson starts violently. I hear him 
murmur something that sounds like “ scoundrel !” I 
suppose he is afraid of the construction Jim will put 
on his actions. 

But no ! His next move is stranger than ever. 

“Come with me,” he says, fiercely, to Jim ; and 
laying his hand on his arm he draws him down to 
the garden. 

“I will be with you in a moment; I can’t leave 
my wife here.” 

“ Let her be, I tell you. I have something to say 
to you ;” and he drags Jim .after him. 

I am in a perfect whirl of bewilderment and 
anger, and quite at a loss what to do, when Mrs. 
Kichardson finds me and takes me into the drawing- 
room. 

A long time elapses. I begin to get nervous, 
when Gerard Kichardson approaches. 

“ Mr. Macadam lias sent me for you. He is not 
feeling very well, and is waiting for you to go 
home.” 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


221 


I hurry out, to find Jim standing at the carriage 
door. 

“ At your house in the morning,” Richardson says. 
Jim murmurs an assent, and we drive off. 

“ Are you ill, darling ?” I ask, tenderly, putting 
ray face up for a kiss. 

Gently and firmly he puts me from him, pushing 
me back into my corner of the carriage. 

“Oh, Jim! are you angry with me about that 
young Richardson ?” I cry. 

“ Angry with you, my poor darling !” he says, and 
taking me in his arms, crushes me in a passionate 
embrace. 

When we reach home, and I see him in the bright 
light of our cozy room, I am frightened at the 
change in him. His face is ghastly pale, and his 
eyes have an agonized look that is terrible. 

“ You are ill !” I cry. 

“ It is a mere nothing.” 

“ I will run down and get you some brandy.” 

I start for the door. Jim rushes before me and 
bars the way. 

“ For God’s sake don't leave me !” he cries. 

“ Why ?” 

“ Oh, nothing ! nothing ! I don’t want anything ! 
Come and sit beside me.” 

I obey him. 

“ Talk of something !” he says, querulously. 

“Well, Jim, did Mr. Richardson explain his con- 
duct ?” 

Jim seems to rouse himself from a reverie. 

“Oh, yes! I forgot. He told me he 'had been 


222 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


very impolite to you, and asked me to apologize. 
He said he had made a mistake.” 

“ That’s all very well ; but you doji’t know how 
he behaved.” 

“Yes, he told me all.” 

“I am not going to accept his apology, and I am 
never going to enter that house again.” 

“Nonsense, Winnie,” Jim says, anxiously. “ You 
must accept the apology, and take no further notice 
of it ; his explanation was perfectly satisfactory to 
me.” 

“ But not to me.” 

“ Let me hear no more of this !” Jim says, angrily. 
“ I am going to see him on business to-morrow, and 
shall bring him in to lunch, and you are to meet him 
as though nothing had occurred.” 

This is the first time Jim has been unkind to me, 
and without a word I run out of the room, and lock- 
ing myself in my den, begin to cry. 

Jim comes right after me. 

“ Open the door, njy darling !” he calls. “ I was. 
a brute ; forgive me !” and as I open the door he 
comes gently in, and kneeling down before me, lays 
his head in my lap and groans as though in pain. 

“Forgive me! forgive me! my poor darling. I 
must at least be kind to you. Oh, Winnie, promise 
me never to leave me !” 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


223 


CHAPTEE XXIY. 

“i’ll keep my vow”. 

E. EICHAEDSOH calls in the morning, and 



IV A he is closeted with Jim for a couple of hours. 
Jim comes up to my den once, and fetches a packet 
of foreign-looking papers from the little jewelry 
safe, but he does not speak to me. 

By and by they pass under the window. 

“ You will uphold me in this?” Jim says. 

“To the end,” Eichardson answers. “You are 
going to do the right thing.” 

The luncheon-bell rings. I do not stir ; I won’t 
meet that man without a battle. 

My husband comes up for me. 

“ The bell has rung, darling,” he says. He is look- 
ing very pale and ill, but better than last night. 

“ Pm not coming down,” I answer. 

“ Winnie, you promised !” 

“ I did not ; you said I had to.” 

“ But won’t you ?” 

“ Hot to meet that man.” 

“Young Eichardson is the nicest fellow I have 
met in a long while. He has apologized amply for 
his foolish mistake. I make it a point for you to 
overlook it. Won’t you, for my sake?” 

I am conquered, and go down to lunch. 

Mr. Eichardson greets me effusively. 


224 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


“ How good of you to have pardoned me so 
sweetly,” he says, before I have time to speak. 

I am on the point of saying that I have done noth- 
ing of the sort, when Jim breaks in : 

“ Yes, of course she has. I hope you are hungry, 
Richardson.” 

They both make a tremendous pretense of raven- 
ous hunger, and pile their plates up as though they 
had eaten nothing in a month ; but I am watching 
them, and I notice the\r don’t eat a thing, while the 
dogs are stuffed to repletion. 

I wonder what this business is that has taken away 
their appetites — unpleasant, evidently. I hope that 
young Richardson isn’t worrying Jim over some dis- 
graceful scrape or other he has got himself into. 

Mr. Richardson leaves almost immediately after 
lunch, and Jim follows me upstairs as I dress to go 
out. 

He sits by the window, and at last calls me to 
him. 

“ What is it?” I ask, kneeling beside him. 

“ Tell me, Winnie, that you are my wife,” he 
says. 

“ Of course I am, you silly old thing ; have I not 
this to show it ?” and I hold up my wedding-ring. 

Jim takes my hand and turns it over, looking at 
the lines in the palm. 

“ M}^ poor little girl,” he says, “ I wish you didn’t 
have such a big heart-line. It will bring you sor- 
row, Winnie, for it governs your whole life.” 

“Who was it said that to me before?” I say, won- 
deringly. “ I remember some one scolding me for 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


225 


having so much heart, and telling me I had better 
be rid of it. Oh, I know! It was Mrs. Hagger- 
stone !” 

I say the words thoughtlessly, without remember- 
ing how painful the name is to Jim ; but I regret it 
almost before the words are out of my mouth, for 
he crushes me in his arms and cries, wildly : 

“Oh, Winnie! Winnie! You will not let any- 
thing part us, w T ill you ?” 

“ What nonsense ! As if anyone could !” 

“But you will never want to be parted from 
me ?” 

“ Now, why should I want to run away from such 
happiness as you have given me V ’ 

“But suppose people told you I had done some- 
thing very wicked. What would you do?” 

“I wouldn’t believe them.” 

“ But suppose I told you it was true ?” 

“ I wouldn’t believe you. I would send for the 
doctor and have you treated for something.” 

“ And you would not let anything part us ?” 

“ Indeed I would not.” 

“ Promise me.” 

“No! Suppose you wanted a divorce; how in- 
convenient it would be !” 

“ Promise,” he says, so seriously that I get seri- 
ous. 

« Jim, darling,” I say, “ I have already promised 
to cleave to you for better for worse, for richer for 
poorer, in sickness and in health, till death us do 
part, and I’ll keep my vow.” 

“ Thank you, my darling,” he says. 




A PROUD DISHONOR. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

“for god’s sake don’t leave me!” 

I CANNOT think what is the matter with Jim, 
and I am beginning to feel terribly unhappy. 
Ever since that dinner party at the Richardson’s 
his manner has changed. I am sure he loves me as 
well as, if not better than, before ; but he is so 
strange that I don’t know what to make of it. His 
one cry, morning and night, is a re-echo of that 
strange request : 

“ For God’s sake don’t leave me !” 

He never lets me out of his sight, but follows me 
about like my very shadow. Even when I go into 
the kitchen he comes with me, and waits at the door, 
or stands whistling at the window until I make a 
move in another direction. 

At first I attributed this perpetual watching to 
jealousy, and though I was annoyed at such unrea- 
sonable conduct I tried to take no notice of it ; but 
now that I see him growing pale and thin I have 
become fearfully anxious, for I have made a terrible 
discovery. My husband is not watching me ; he is 
simply afraid of being alone. 

A dreadful fear is taking possession of me, and if 
I could only get away from him I would go and ask 
some one's advice ; but I never can get a moment’s 
freedom. 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


227 


I have thought of writing to Lottie, who is in Lon- 
don now for a few weeks, but what I have to say 
cannot be written. How should I frame the terrible 
words : 

“ I think my husband is going mad !” 

The most appalling fancies shape themselves in 
my mind. I am convinced of his madness, and I am 
dreading some outbreak of violence. Sleep is tor- 
ture to me. I am pursued in it by my waking 
thoughts, and am consumed by hideous dreams of 
his going mad and tr}dng to take my life. 

I watch him closely for symptoms, but find none ; 
indeed, so far it seems to be only a mania ; but when 
the mania takes such a strange form, it is surely a 
sign of incipient madness. 

The first sign was the night of the Richardson 
dinner ; he was all right when he started for that 
ramble with Gerard, but he came back insane. See 
how strangely he behaved in insisting I should re- 
main friendly with a young man who had been so 
grossly insulting ! Most men would have thrashed 
young Richardson, or done something emphatic ; but 
the preposterous notion of passing it over could only 
have occurred to a man whose mind was going. 

I wish I could see Mr. Richardson alone ; but my 
poor husband renders that quite impossible ; indeed, 
he always seems more restless when the Richardsons 
call. 

It is a dreadful life to lead ; but, strangely enough, 
I am the only person who perceives anything out of 
the way in my husband’s conduct. We are feted 
and dined, invited everywhere, and live in a con- 


228 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


tinual round of gayety ; and on every side I am met 
with congratulations on the wonderful devotion of 
my husband, who, though six more months have 
rolled by and changed summer into winter, has not 
begun to assume the careless affection of the hus- 
band, but is still intensely the lover. 

If the world fancies this conduct of his is devotion 

I will not undeceive it ; only, I would give oh ! 

what would I not give for a few weeks of quiet, a 
few weeks to bear up and strengthen myself for the 
still greater grief that is yet before me ! • 

With the early spring a young, budding life is to 
be intrusted to our care, and I — God forgive me ! — 
look forward to it with the most overwhelming ap- 
prehension and horror. Suppose my baby should be 
an imbecile ! Or worse, far worse, suppose that as 
I watch its understanding growing, and fancy it has 
escaped the affliction, it should suddenly become 
mad ! 

God alone knows what I am suffering, and if I 
dared, I would pray that the little life might flicker 
out as it begins to burn. 

With all this on my mind I have to appear cheer- 
ful and happy, for the slightest cloud on my face 
plunges my poor husband into such a fearful state of 
despondency that I dread what may be its result. 

How I bear the strain I cannot tell ; but Jim has 
no idea of my mental sufferings, and my pale face 
passes off without comment. 

Jim has taken a great fancy to young Richardson 
— so much so, that hardly a day passes that he is 
not in our house. His manner to my husband, 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


229 


which on that terrible night was so pointedly scorn- 
ful and insulting, has changed to a kindness that is 
almost brotherly in its tenderness, and more than 
anything else convinces me that he knows the 
truth. 

We have been lunching, Gerard with us; a walk 
has been proposed, and the meal being over, I hasten 
to my room to prepare for it. 

We are only going to see the skating at Yan 
Courtland’s, so I don’t need to make a toilet, and 
in a trice I have my hat and cloak on, and am back 
before they have begun to expect me. 

As I enter, my husband’s voice reaches me. 

“ This life is worse than hell, Gerard,” he is say- 
ing. “ I can’t go on with it ; I would rather that 
she knew the worst.” 

What does he mean ? 

I dart quickly back into the hall before they have 
seen me, and pause to think. 

Madmen are never conscious of their own insanity, 
therefore Jim cannot be mad ; but if he is not mad, 
what is the meaning of it all ? What fearful trouble 
is hanging over me ? 

Without a moment’s hesitation I run upstairs, re- 
move my hat and coat, and hastily scribble a note 
to Gerard Kichardson. 

“ I must see you alone at once,” I write, and then 
go slowly down-stairs. 

“ Jim, dear,” I say, “ I am so sorry I cannot go 
out this afternoon. I promised to stay home in case 
Miss Fosbrooke called.” 

I know Jim will stay with me, and he does. 


230 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


“ I am so sorry, Gerard,” he says. “ Come over 
to-morrow, and we will go.” 

As Gerard rises to go I take a flower from the 
table. 

“ Let me decorate you !” I say, gayly, and under 
pretense of fastening the bud in his coat I endeavor 
to give him the note. 

He will not take it ! 

He sees it, he must understand the meaning look 
I give him, but he resolutely puts his hands behind 
him and refuses it. 

I am desperate. I slip it into his breast-pocket, 
and with my eyes command him to take it. 

He flushes scarlet, makes a motion as though to 
return it, glances at Jim and then at me, and, con- 
fused and flushed, does a thing he has never done 
before — he asks my husband to walk with him as 
far as the gate. I catch a look full of meaning 
which accompanies the request. My husband gives 
a slight nod of acquiescence and they leave the room 
together. 

The mystery that surrounds me prompts me to a 
dishonorable action. 

If I step out of the dining-room window and run 
down behind the hedge of spruce pines that borders 
the drive I can reach the gate unperceived a moment 
or two before they do, and if they have anything to 
say, overhear it. 

Quick as thought I open the window, drop out the 
couple of feet it is from the ground, and hurrying 
down to the gate, am soon hidden among the thick 
branches. 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


231 


I am hardly settled before they are abreast of 
me. 

“What is it?” Jim asks, anxiously, his face pale 
and drawn. 

“Trouble,” says Gerard. “Be brave, Jim; our 
worst fears are realized ; your wife suspects some- 
thing.” 

“ My God !” cries Jim, grasping his arm for sup- 
port. “What does she suspect ? How do you know 
she suspects ?” 

“ Because she tried to give me a note when she 
pinned that flower in my coat.” 

“Well?” 

“ I pretended not to see it, and put my hands be- 
hind me.” 

“ And she didn’t give it you ?” 

“ She did give it me ; she thrust it in my pocket. 
It is there now, Jim. Brace up now, before you read 
it ; for I know she would not have resorted to such 
a desperate measure without some strong reason.” 

He hands Jim my note, and together they read 
it. 

“ ‘ I must see you alone at once !’ Why, what 
does it mean?” 

“ The meaning is quite plain to me,” Gerard an- 
swers. “She suspects something — fancies I know 
the truth, and wants to cross-examine me.” 

“ Do you think she suspects the truth ?” Jim cries, 
his face ashen. 

“Ho, no, not the truth. But now we must face 
this difficulty. In the matter of this letter, what am 
I to do?” 


232 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


“ Can’t you see her, find out what she suspects, 
and throw her off the scent ?” 

“Ho, I could not. I might find myself revealing 
to her just what we mdst want to conceal. I could 
not lie to her.” 

“ How your words cut me !” my husband says, 
grinding his heel deeply into the graveled path. 
“ Think of my life ! One long lie to her — to her, 
the sweetest, purest, truest woman that ever lived ! 
I would lay down my life for her ; and yet each day 
I have to degrade myself more and more, each hour 
to steep my soul deeper and deeper into .this black 
pool of deceit and treachery. And for what ? To 
earn her contempt and abhorrence, should she ever 
learn the truth !” 

“Hush! hush! Don’t excite yourself,” says Ge- 
rard. “ You are surely doing what is right.” 

“May be,” Jim says, drearily ; and then goes on, 
with growing excitement, “ but think of the life I am 
forcing her to lead. If she knew, she might turn on 
me and curse me ! And yet — and yet — I have not 
the strength to undeceive her. I have tried! The 
other night I sat late into the hours, nerving myself 
for the task. When I was prepared, I went into 
her room. She was sleeping. I watched her as she 
lay there, so pure and white, her face flushed like a 
child’s, her lips parted. She looked so innocent and 
young ! I leaned over her. Even in her sleep she 
was conscious of my nearness. She smiled, Gerard 
— oh, such a smile of love! — and extending her 
arms, murmured my name. Ah, Richardson, my 
resolutions melted like snow before the sun ! I fell 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


233 


back, horrified at myself for what I was about to do. 
I had gone to the side of that sweet being, whose love 
for me is her life, with the intention of dealing a 
vital blow at that love ! Could I do it ? Could I 
murder all the hope and joy that is in her because 
moralists would say that I was imperiling the salva- 
tion of two souls? If it be so — if God’s laws are 
what men make them out to be — Heaven must be a 
worse place than Hell !” 

There is a moment’s silence, and then he con- 
tinues : 

“ I cannot tell her now. I might sacrifice two 
lives by it ! I cannot tell her now, and God knows 
that when she is the mother of my child I can tell 
her still less. Could I see her with her pretty baby 
on her knee, and tell her of the awful blight that 
is on her life, and my life, and our child’s ? Never ! 
While I live, I will do all in my power to keep the 
knowledge from her !” 

Gerard lays his arm solemnly around my husband’s 
shoulders. 

“ My poor friend, you will be doing right ; and 
for your sake, as well as hers, I will do all in my 
power to help you.” 

“ God bless you !” says Jim. 

“ Ah, Macadam,” says Gerard, “ if I could take 
vour burden away with me, and bear it for her 
sake !” 

“ All you can do,” Jim answers, “ is to help me 
to keep her in ignorance. Good-by !” and they 
part. 

My husband goes slowly into the house. With 


234 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


fleet steps I regain the dining-room, and sink down 
into a seat, sick and faint. 

The truth they are trying to hide from me is but 
too clear to me. My idolized husband is mad l To- 
day I have heard him rave ! 

God have mercy upon me ! 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


235 


CHAPTEE XXVI. 

I MEET MRS. HAGGERSTONE FOR THE THIRD TIME. 

I T IS NOW two days since the terrible truth was 
revealed to me. Oh, what days of agony they 
have been ! I have tried to appear the same as ever, 
but the strain has made me weak and ill. 

We are at breakfast, when Mary comes in with a 
telegram. 

Jim opens it, hastily scribbles an answer, and then 
turns to me. 

“ How long will it take you to get ready?” he 
asks, handing me the message. 

I read : 

“ Important fall in stocks. Come down without 
delay.” 

I look up at Jim for explanation. 

“ It is from my broker,” he answers. “ I am evi- 
dently going to lose some money. We must go and 
see to this at once. Get pn your things.” 

“But, Jim, whatever do you want me for?” 

“ I could not leave you alone.” 

“ I am sorry, dear, but I am not well, to-day, and 
I cannot go.” 

“ Not go !” he says, in surprise ; for this is the first 
time I have refused him. 


236 


A PROUD DISHONOR . 


“No; I am really not equal to the exertion.” 

“Very well, dear,” he says gently, reseats himself 
at the table, and hands his cup for more coffee. 

“ But you must go. The telegram seems urgent,” 
I say, wanting him to go, and yet fearing to oppose 
him too violently. 

“No, Winnie, I cannot leave you here alone,” he 
answers, so quietly and rationally that I cannot be- 
lieve that it is only a mania. 

“ I am not in the least nervous,” I persist. 

“ But I am,” he replies. 

“ And you need not be gone long.” 

“ There would be time enough for plenty of things 
to happen,” he answers, with a gloomy frown. 

“ But you may lose a great deal of money by stay- 
ing.” 

“ True. Ah, a bright idea ! I will ask Gerard to 
come and stay with you while I am gone.” 

“ My dear boy, what do you think can happen to 
me?” 

“Never mind, I will take care nothing does.” 

He rings and orders the dog-cart, and the gar- 
dener to take the note to the Bichardsons. 

I make no comment on this last freak, but bustle 
about to get him started, and soon the dog-cart is at 
the door and the note on itsnvay to the Bichardsons. 

I go into the hall to see Jim off, and at the door 
he turns and throws his arms around me. 

“ My darling !” he says, “ I cannot bear to go. I 
feel as if something were about to happen — as if this 
were the last time I should clasp my darling wife to 
my heart.” 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


237 


“ Don’t go, then, if you have such forebodings,” I 
say, shuddering. 

He kisses me fondly. 

“ Always remember that I loved you better than 
life,” he says, and is gone. 

His last words have such an effect on me that 
after he is gone a foolish nervous feeling creeps over 
me. I cannot rest. I long for Jim’s return, and 
wish that I had been able to go with him ; and then 
I begin to wonder how long it will be before Gerard 
comes. I almost fear that he may not come, lest I 
question him ; but he need not be afraid ; I know 
all, and there is no need of making inquiries. 

A note is brought to me. 

It is from Mrs. Richardson. Gerard was unex- 
pectedly called to town by the nine o’clock train, 
but she will send him over the moment he comes in. 

A blank feeling of dismay settles down upon me. 
I am, then, utterly unprotected. I cannot tell what 
I fear, but I shudder and look anxiously round the 
room, dreading I know not what. I have that 
nameless feeling of impending evil which is always 
worse than the actual trouble itself. 

“ Good heavens !” I cry, “ Jim may not be mad, 
after all ; there may be some hideous danger threat- 
ening me!” 

I glance round. One window is a little open, as I 
left it after feeding the birds. Any one might step 
in and murder me before my cries could reach the 
kitchen. 

I rise and move toward the window to close it, 
but as I near it a woman’s form glides into the room, 


238 


A PROUD DISHONOR . 


and with an agony of fear too great for words I 
recognize the gleaming eyes and black hair of Mrs. 
tlaggerstone ! 

I am paralyzed with fear as the figure approaches. 
Why cannot this dead woman rest in her grave ? 
Why does she haunt me ? 

The figure advances until within a few yards of 
me and then pauses, fixing its piercing eyes on me. 

I cannot stand the scrutiny, and in a hoarse voice 
cry: 

“Why have you come here? What do you 
want ?” 

The figure laughs a hard, mirthless laugh. I 
gather courage. 

“What have I done to you,” I ask, “that you 
should come back from the grave to terrify me ?” 

She speaks. 

“ Come back from the grave ! I have not come 
back from any grave. I am no ghost ! Touch roe.” 

She holds out her arm, and with trembling fingers 
I grasp it. It is the warm, firm arm of a living 
woman. 

“ Are you satisfied ?” she asks. 

“ But I read of your death !” 

“ That was all a mistake. It was my maid who 
died.” 

I am intensely relieved ; this is merely a question 
of money, then. 

“Won’t you be seated?” I say. “You must ex- 
cuse my nervousness, but your sudden appearance 
startled me. How r very distressing the mistake 
must have been to you !” My relief is so great that 


A PROUD DISHONOR . 


239 


I become garrulous. “ How was it that the error 
was so long left unrectified ? I can quite guess the 
business that has brought you here to-day, and 
realize fully the unpleasant position you are in. 
But please don’t think a bit about it. My husband 
will soon put it all right, and you must allow me the 
novel sensation of being the first legatee who ever 
had the opportunity of thanking the testator for a 
legacy.” 

She takes no notice of my attempt at pleasantry, 
but stares steadily at me. 

“You are right in surmising that I have come to 
see you on a matter of business, and unpleasant 
business, too.” 

“Not unpleasant!” I say, smiling. “I should not 
think of trying to hold the money ; it is a mere 
question of waiting till my husband returns, when 
he will write you a check, and I will mail it to what- 
ever address you give me.” 

“ I have not come for my money,” she says, show- 
ing her teeth. 

“ For what, then ?” I ask, rising to my feet, and 
meeting her insolence with all the haughtiness at my 
command. 

She rises too, and confronts me, an evil smile curl- 
ing her lips as she speaks, and lets her words fail syl- 
lable by syllable. 

“ I have come for my husband !” 

“ Your husband \ What do I know of your hus- 
band ? Who is your husband ?” 

She laughs as she answers : 

“James Macadam.” 


240 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


“ I am James Macadam’s wife !” I say, proudly. 

“Pardon me, I am his wife.” 

“Woman ! How dare you repeat that falsehood !” 

“ Don’t get tragic,” she says, reseating herself ; “ I 
have brought my certificate with me. I am telling 
nothing but the truth.” 

“ What does this mean ?” I gasp. 

She searches in her pocket-book for a paper, and 
while so doing continues her story. 

“ I was married to James Macadam seven years 
ago in Italy, as you will see by this paper. We were 
not happy, and separated. On hearing of my death 
he married you ; and he was a trifle too hasty, that 
was all.” 

She hands me the paper ; it is a certificate. Oh, 
the misery that grips me as I read the words that 
confirm her story, and strike a death-blow to all my 
hopes. My brain reels, but with a mighty effort I 
control myself. Then a light breaks in on me. 

“Why did you leave me that legacy?” I ask, 
sharply. 

She starts and pauses before she replies : 

“ Oh, I liked you, and I thought you would make 
dear Jim a good wife.” 

“It is false!” I cry, furiously. “We are the vic- 
tims of some vile plot of yours ! But look you, 
woman — this shall be sifted to the bottom, and you 
shall be prosecuted for the crime you have forced 
others to commit !” 

“I would advise you to keep very quiet,” she 
says, coldly, “ for the blow might not fall on the 
head you intended it for. As soon as I was able to 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


241 


travel, after my fever, I came to America to 
straighten matters. After I had been here a few 
weeks I learned of my husband's second marriage. 
I sought him out, and also his ally, Gerard Richard- 
son. And now, my dear, be warned. Any attempt 
you make to strike at me will only end in placing 
him in a felon’s dock, for he has known that he was 
a bigamist for six months.” 

“ Six months !” I cry. 

“ Six months,” she repeats. 

It is just six months since I began to fear his brain 
was affected ; this, then, has been the cause of his 
strange conduct. In his endeavor to shield me he 
has been making himself a criminal; and this, too, 
under the eyes of this woman, his archenemy ! 

“ I have been trying to save you for months,” she 
goes on in a hard, unsympathetic voice, “ but you 
were so closely guarded that it has been impossible 
till now. My ruse was a good one, was it not?” 

“ Am I to understand that you got my husband 
and his friend away by means of forged telegrams ?” 

“ If you like to put it that way, yes.” 

“You did this thing that you might come here 
and gloat over my misery!” I cry, with dilated 
eyes. 

“ I was anxious to save you from a life of sin,” 
she begins ; but I interrupt her, fiercely : 

“ Enough ! That is a term you shall not dare to 
use to me ! What sin there is, lies at your door ! 
You planned this thing. Ay, deny it as you will; 
but God and your own conscience know that the 
guilt lies on your soul !” 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


242 

She cowers at my words, but answers, coldly : 

“ It is idle to look for gratitude in this world.” 

“ Gratitude!” I echo. “You have had the satis- 
faction of seeing the result of your scheme. Is not 
that enough ?” 

“ Nearly !” she answers. “ The debt I owed Mr. 
Macadam was a heavy one, and I don’t think it is 
quite liquidated yet. But this has nothing to do 
with the matter. The question is, What are you 
going to do ?” 

“What am I going to do?” I repeat the words 
after her ; they seem to have no meaning for me. 

“ Yes,” she persists. “Do you propose to sit here 
and wait for Mr. Macadam’s return ? I suppose you 
don’t intend to go on living in infamy ?” 

“ Silence !” I cry, furiously. “ Don’t try to taunt 
me ! There is no question of infamy. What was 
virtue an hour ago cannot now be vice.” 

“What a thorough woman you are, Miss Ten 
Eyck ! Always ready with some wise saw or weak 
axiom for the critical moment.” 

“Your errand is fulfilled; you can leave the 
house.” 

“Certainly,” she says, rising gracefully. “Live 
on here in your self-styled virtue. I wish you every 
happiness. Will you kindly direct me to Mrs. Rich- 
ardson’s house ? She is a dear old friend of mine, 
and will be delighted to know I am alive. Can I 
give ber any message for you? Good-day,” and 
with a sweeping bow she glides out of the window, 
and I am alone. 

Her parting shot rankles. She is going to see the 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


243 


Richardsons, and I know what that means. Inside 
of three hours our pitiful story will be the common 
talk of the country-side. 

I cannot face it ; but to flee from it means 

Yes, the terrible truth has forced itself upon me ; 
we must part. To save my husband from blame I 
must leave him. Leave my husband ! My husband ? 
Oh, God ! he is my husband no longer ! 

I must go, and go while there is yet time. Were 
I to see his face, or hear his voice, I would give up 
the whole world for him. But no ; his honor should 
be dearer to me than aught else ; I will go. 

If the world hears our story now, who will blame 
him ? He has tried to shield the woman he loves 
from the malice of the woman who has wronged 
him. But if I should not go ; if I should let a 
shadow fall across this love that has been so pure 
and holy ; if I, who to this hour have been an hon- 
ored wife, should sully the dignity of that proud 
title Ho! The thought is madness. I must go. 

My wretched reflections are interrupted by the 
entrance of Mary with a telegram. 

It is from Jim, telling me to meet the 12.10 train. 

“ Mary !” I cry, hastily, “ get me a satchel ready, 
and order the carriage to take me to the station.” 

“ Ho bad news, Ma’am, I hope,” says the girl. 

“ Yes, the worst. I must go.” 

Mary hurries out to execute my orders, and I fol- 
low her upstairs, and hastily pack a few necessaries. 

This done, I sit down at the little rosewood writ- 
ing-table which was my dear husband’s first present 
to me, and write him my good-by : 


244 


A PROUD DISHONOR . 


My Dakling : — I know all. She has been here. 
Forgive me that I leave you, but I must not stay. I 
do not blame you, poor love, and no one will do so 
if I go. You were all I had in the world, Jim. 

Yours, till death, 

"Winnie. 

I leave this sealed on the desk, and take one long, 
last look round the room that has seen so many 
happy hours. 

My eyes rest on the mirror. I go and stand be- 
fore it. Here, where my very feet are, will he stand. 
This cold glass, that reflects my face now, reflected 
his this morning ; and yet it can give me no smile 
from him. I glance round the room ; to think that 
he used all these things such a short time ago, and 
now they bear no trace of him ! A terrible tragedy 
has taken place; and yet they stand here unmoved, 
as they did yesterday ; they have no sympathy for 
me now, and they will have none for him when, in 
an hour, he comes and cries out to them in his agony. 
They will tauntingly remind him of me, as they now 
do me of him ; but never a sign will they give him of 
the love I leave behind, with them, for him. His 
pillow will not give him back the burning kisses I 
am pressing on it, when it touches his dear head. 
These slippers will say no word of the jealous sobs I 
breathe over them because they may touch his feet, 
while I dare not. I am alone in my anguish. Some 
one must suffer every day, and it is my turn to-day. 
They reproach me with their stolidity. Would I 
have the whole world stop because I am sad ? 

Carriage- wheels on the path. 


A PROUD DISHONOR . 


245 


I must go ! 

Oh, God ! is there a pain worse than this ? 

Good-by, dear room ! Oh, be kinder to him than 
you have been to me ! Good-by ! I must press yet 
one more kiss on that seal, because it will touch his 
lingers. And now, dear husband, dear home, good- 
by ! 


When I get to New York, I am quite at a loss to 
know where to go. My head pains me sadly, I feel 
confused, and the way people stare at me worries 
me. 

A man comes up to me. 

“ Want a cab, lady ? Any baggage ?” 

He takes my satchel and puts me in a carriage. 

“ Where to, please ?” 

“ I have no idea,” I answer ; “ I can’t recollect !” 

A policeman comes up and begins to question me. 
I see a crowd of curious faces, and begin to feel 
very faint, when suddenly, among all the strange 
people, I see some one who seems familiar to me. 
It is a dirty little girl, with rough, unkempt hair, 
who pushes herself up to the cab and peers in. 

“ Lor’ !” she says, “ if it ain’t Miss Winnie !” 

I gaze at her a moment, unable to think who she 
is ; then a flash of memory returns to me. It is the 
Princess ! 

“ Oh, Cerulia !” I cry, “ take me home to your 
aunt !” 

Then all is blank. 


246 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

A FRIEND IN NEED. 

I HAVE BEER ill a long time, they tell me. 

Mrs. Frayne says it is two months since Cerulia 
found me at the Grand Central Depot, and it is just 
a month since I began to walk about again. I am 
feeling so well and strong that it is time I began to 
think of the future. 

I have tried to be thankful for my recovery ! I 
know everyone ought to be grateful to God when 
He gives back life and health ; but oh ! I want my 
life so little. 

I have lain for hours, gazing at the ceiling of my 
old room — the room I slept in the night before I 
married — and thought and thought until my brain 
has seemed bursting. 

Dear old Mrs. Frayne, with that singular want of 
tact that characterizes her class, fancied I should be 
more comfortable in my old rooms, and so turned 
their occupant out ; and, as I am slowly recovering, 
added one more burden to my already overweighted 
heart by surrounding me with things that constantly 
remind me of the past. 

I ought not to say a word about it, though, for 
her kindness to me has been wonderful and unremit- 
ting. She tells me that after Cerulia and the police- 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


247 


man brought me to her, and the doctor had been 
sent for and restored me to consciousness, I told her 
my miserable story, and implored her not to let my 
poor Jim know where I was. She talked the mat- 
ter over with her husband, and they decided to keep 
my secret ; and though at first several people came 
to her to know if I were at her house, she always 
denied it ; and now I am lost to them, and free to 
shape my future as I will. 

How lonely I feel ! I have nothing to comfort 
me. My little baby only lived a few hours, and I 
never heard its infant cry. 1 wonder whether I 
have missed a sorrow, or the greatest joy a woman’s 
life could know ? 

My little stock of mone}^ was long since exhausted, 
and though Mrs. Frayne insists that I owe her noth- 
ing, I know that I am living on her bounty ; and 
now that I am well again, I begin to wonder what 
I shall do. I dare not go to the bank for the money 
that lies there, because they will be sure to keep a 
watch for anyone going there from me. I speak to 
Mrs. Frayne. 

“You ain’t strong enough for sewing,” is her 
comment. 

“Ho, I think I will try and get into some opera 
company,” I say ; and as I think of it, the idea be- 
comes more pleasant to me. I try my voice. It is 
weak, but has lost nothing in quality. Work will 
distract me, and I need the salary, so I make up 
my mind to try my luck once more with Mr. 
Mertens. 

I choose a nice, bright day for my visit. 


248 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


Mr. Mertens is delighted to see me, and full of 
sympathy for me; for, according to Mrs. Frayne’s 
directions, I tell him I have lost my husband. 

“'My dear girl,” he says, “I think I have the very 
thing for you. A friend of mine is sending a piece 
over to England. He was asking me if I knew of 
an attractive singer to go with him, to sing a couple 
of ballads, and take part in some glees. I think it 
would just suit you. The voyage will set you up, 
and by the time you get to the other side you will 
be as jolly as ever.” 

“Yery well,” I say, apathetically. 

“The time is very short,” he says. “The com- 
pany has been engaged two weeks, but they could 
not find the singer to suit them. I have authority 
to engage anyone I think suitable, and I will settle 
with you now, if you think you can be ready by 
Saturday.” 

“ I could be ready to-morrow.” 

“ Have you no friends to say good-by to ?” 

“ ISTo ! Ho one now.” 

“ Poor girl ! poor girl !” and he pats my hand. 

His kindness is too much for me; I burst into 
tears. 

“ There ! there ! Don’t fret ; the change will do 
you a world of good. Go home and rest yourself. 
I have your address ; 1 will write }^ou all particu- 
lars ; and be ready to sail on the 15th.” 

Unconsciously I turn into the old, familiar walk 
in Washington Square, to think over the interview, 
and the true significance of Mr. Mertens’ last words 
dawns upon me. 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


249 


On the 15th I must be ready to journey far, far 
away from Jim ; so far that I may never look on his 
face a_gain. 

I gaze round me at the old, familiar scene, with 
slow tears falling. What memories this Square has 
for me ! When first I used to tread these walks I 
was a young, happy' girl, and now in a few months 
I am a woman, worn and broken-hearted. 

It was here that I read that first letter from him ; 
here that I used to come when the first shadow of 
this sorrow crossed me ; here we used to walk in 
those few short days before we were married, when 
we were- such happy lovers. We made a pilgrimage 
here only this winter, man and wife, and I showed 
him where I used to walk and think of him, and we 
planned how we would plant just such a walk down 
to the second gate, to remind us of our sweetheart- 
ing. This very month we would have planted the 
trees ! And now I stand looking on the well-known 
spot with widowed eyes and barren heart, alone, 
wretched, soon to be exiled. 

A hand is laid on my shoulder. 

“ Mrs. Macadam !” some one says. “ Thank God 
that I have found you at last !” 

I turn round, and see Gerard Richardson before me. 

I try to turn away, but the sight of his face fills 
me with deep emotion, and I lean weak and trem- 
bling against a tree. 

“You have been ill !” he cries. “Why did you 
not send for us ? Why did you leave us ? We have 
searched everywhere for you, and feared you were 
lost to us forever !” 


250 


A PROUD DISHONOR . 


“ I wished to be so.” 

“ How could you be so cruel ? If you knew what 
Jim had suffered !” 

At the mention of my husband I cannot control 
myself. 

u Tell me,” I cry ; “ is he — is he ” 

“ He is heart-broken. He has been to California in 
search of you. We heard that after that woman 
had done her fiendish work she set out for San Fran- 
cisco, and that she had another lady with her. The 
idea possessed Jim that you were the lady ; he fol- 
lowed, only to find it was the maid, Mary Smith — 
the woman whom Mrs. Ilaggerstone told us had died 
in Italy at the time she herself was reported to have 
died.” 

My yearning to hear of my lost love overmasters 
me. 

“ Tell me about him. How does he look ? What 
does he do? Where is he? Tell me everything, 
anything.” 

He seeks to calm me, and answers, gently : 

“ He is terribly shaken and altered ; hardly the 
same man. He has but one idea, and that is to find 
you. His only desire is to know where you are, and 
to provide for your wants. He never hopes that you 
will see him or forgive him.” 

“ Forgive him!” I cry. 

“ Yes !” says Mr. Richardson, warmly. “ You have 
been very hard on him. He did you no wrong wit- 
tingly ; you were both sinned against ; and yet you 
fled from him, as if he were the greatest villain on 
earth. Hay!” as I would interrupt him, “hear me 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


251 


first ! Had you seen him as I did, you must have 
pitied him. For six months he had known the 
trouble that was overshadowing you, and had borne 
it bravely, hoping to shield and spare you. At first 
he wanted to travel, but I dissuaded him thinking — 
poor fool that I was ! — that with a staunch friend at 
his side he could better protect you from that 
woman’s villainy ; for I have been his staunch friend 
since I learned the truth. Think of the woman we 
have had to contend with ! That day I met you in 
the woods she was with me, and had just told me 
that you knew she was alive all the time, and that 
there had never been a pretense of marriage between 
you. Do you remember how I treated you that 
night at our house ? That woman told me she had 
sought me out as the one who had known her as 
Jim’s wife, and made me promise to vindicate her 
and see her righted. I wanted at first to publicly 
disgrace you, but when it came to the moment I 
could not ; I liked you too well. I then thought I 
would warn you to leave the neighborhood. Do you 
remember how angry you were with me? Your in- 
dignation was so genuine that I felt there must be 
a mistake somewhere, and fancied poor Jim had 
deceived you. A few words with him revealed the 
whole truth. My God ! I will never forget his face 
when I told him she was alive. I believed in him 
before he showed me the certificates from the doc- 
tors and people which he had obtained in Italy, 
when he read of her death ; and then we set about 
thinking what was best for you. Me saw the woman 
several times ; she accepted money from us to go 


252 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


away, and even went so far about hoodwinking us 
as to commence proceedings in divorce against Jim. 
He made no defense, and we hoped, before the 
spring came, to have him a free man. But how 
were we to guess the depths of that woman’s vil- 
lainy ? She was just playing us, till she could find a 
favorable opportunity to get at you and ruin all. 
The day of the trouble she summoned us both to town 
with bogus telegrams. When I found out that mine 
was a hoax I hurried to the station, fearing the 
worst ; there I met Macadam in an agony of mind 
that was piteous to see. When we reached the 
house we were quite prepared to find you knew the 
worst ; but that you should be gone was an unex- 
pected blow to us, and it staggered us. When poor 
Jim realized it, I thought he would have gone mad. 
It was terrible. Since then he has rested neither 
night nor day in his passionate desire to find 
you.” 

He pauses, but I cannot speak ; I am suffering a 
grief too deep for words. 

“ There has been a universal feeling of sympath}?- 
for you both, since it became known that Mrs. Hag- 
gerstone had refused to give Jim his divorce, because 
it was her wish to come back and live with him.” 

I shudder. The idea of another woman being to 
him what I have been, kills me. 

“ I suppose you left home in the first madness of 
your despair ?” he asks. 

I nod my head. 

“And what do you intend to do now?” 

“ Sing !” I sa y, taken off my guard. 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


253 


“ Sing !” he cries. a You cannot contemplate such 
a thing !” 

“If I tell you, you must promise to keep my 
secret until I give you leave to tell it.” 

“ I promise.” 

“ Then I am under engagement to go to England 
in a few da} r s.” 

“ You will never do this !” he cries. 

“I will, indeed. I must do something.” 

“You need not. Why not let Jim provide for 
you ?” 

I flush hotly at the idea of receiving as a bounty 
what such a short time ago was mine by right. 

“ No, never !” I say, firmly. 

“ Mrs. Macadam,” he says, nervously, “ don’t you 
think you could see Jim every now and then?” 

The thought sends the blood coursing through my 
veins, but in a moment my better judgment reas- 
serts itself. 

“ No,” I say, firmly. 

He sits down beside me, and leaning toward me, 
speaks gently to me : 

“ Mrs. Macadam, you must know the friendship I 
have for Jim; since this trouble came upon him, I 
have been daily and hourly learning the true noble- 
ness of his character. I have done all in my power 
to save him, and I think I must have proved to 3'ou 
the affection I have for him.” 

“ Indeed you have,” I respond, warmly. 

“ Then,” he continues, “ you will understand that i n 
what I am about to say my motives are of the best. 
I have a difficult and delicate task before me, but 


254 : 


A PROUD DISHONOR . 


for Jim’s sake I beg yon to hear me through. I 
have always regarded you with the profoundest ad- 
miration and the purest affection ; you have always 
been to me a woman far above other women ; and it 
pains me to think that through no fault of your own 
you are placed in a position hurtful to your womanly 
feelings and self-respect. It is Jim’s greatest trouble 
that he should have placed you in such a false posi- 
tion, and we have talked frequently about the prop- 
osition I wish to lay before you. Will you let my 
name shelter you and restore you to your rightful 
position?” 

“ What !” I cry in horror. 

“Nay, hear me!” he says, interrupting me. 
“ Don’t fancy I am daring to speak of love to you ; 
I would cut my tongue out rather than so insult 
you. I offer you my homage and my name. I have 
but one desire, and that is to alleviate your pain.” 

His goodness overpowers me, and I sob weakly. 

“ I did not mean to pain you,” he says, humbly. 

“You are too good,” I murmur, “but it is impos- 
sible.” 

“ Why ?” he asks. 

“Because of Jim. What comfort could your 
name be to me when my whole heart was crying- 
out to him ?” 

“ True,” he says ; “ but, then, you are alone, weak 
and helpless, and you need some one to protect 
you.” 

“ Hush !” I cry. “ Every word you utter is sacri- 
lege ! Could you stand with a weeping widow, be- 
side the dead body of the husband she had wor- 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


255 


shiped, and ask her to be your wife? Would you 
have me defile the sacred chamber of my dead love 
by plighting anew the vows from which I am not 
released ? Go ! Leave me alone with my dead ; it 
is all I have, all I want !” 

I rise to leave him, but he detains me. 

“ Mrs. Macadam,” he says, “ may I speak a half- 
framed thought that has been pursuing, me ever 
since wo met? Why will you not go back to your 
husband ?” 

I start violently. 

“If the words to which you have just given utter- 
ance were from your heart,” he goes on, “ and you 
so cling to his memory that you would rather be an 
outcast for his sake than the honored wife of an- 
other, it is because you feel you still owe him a 
wife’s duty. Is it not so ?” 

I bow my head. 

“Then you ought to give him that duty, for he 
loves you with his whole soul, and without you, life 
is a blank to him. Ah, Mrs. Macadam, you are 
made of a different stuff from most women ; you are 
capable of rising above the poor conventionalities of 
the world. Let me put the situation before you. 
On one hand is a man whose whole being is wrapped 
in yours; whose very life is in your keeping.” 

“ His life !” I cry, aghast. 

He goes on, without heeding me. 

“ On the other hand is what ? Social prejudice ! 
Your union with my poor friend was no common 
one. You are husband and wife in the truest sense 
of the word. You are one in thought, in heart, 


256 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


and desire. Y ours was no earthly contract ; it was 
a holy bond. Let me ask you, will you let anything 
but death sever it V 9 

“ No ! no !” I moan. 

“ And yet you are allowing the machinations of an 
evil woman to do so !” 

“No! — only before the world, and to save his 
name fr&m dishonor ! In heart and soul I am still 
his wife, and shall be till I die !” 

“You have sufficient strength of mind to suffer 
yourself, that he may be happy ; but what if I tell 
you } r our sacrifice is in vain, for you forget that it is 
not alone yourself that you are sacrificing. Cannot 
your fortitude carry you a little further? Yon’t 
you give up your present for his future ? I assure 
you, Jim" will not live six months without you. 
Will you, then, cost him his life ? He needs you ; be 
brave, and go back! If you hesitate on social 
grounds, believe me, since it has become known how 
that woman withdrew her plea for divorce, there is 
not a soul who would censure you.” 

“ Hush !” I cry. “ It is my duty to protect his 
honor, not to stain it.” 

“Mrs. Macadam, your duty is at his side. What- 
ever clouds may arise between you, nothing should 
separate you.” 

“ But,” I murmur, “ he is not my husband now.” 

Gerard Bichardson rises to his feet and says, sol- 
emnly : 

“ In the sight of God he is your husband ; and it 
is to God, not to man, you must answer, if }^ou fin- 
ish the work another has begun, and drive him in 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


257 


the madness of despair to take the life that was 
given him for a higher purpose.” 

With these terrible words he leaves me. I am 
broken, helpless, and bewildered; but above the 
whirl of confusion in which I am ring the words: 

“ In the sight of God he is your husband !” 


258 


A PPOXJD DISHONOn. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

“in the sight of god.” 

I DON’T KNOW how long I sit in the Square 
after Mr. Richardson leaves me. I think so 
many things that I could almost fancy I had been 
sitting there for years. My mind dwells on the old, 
happy days. I live over again every hour of my 
past. I dream of the loving husband who was all 
in all to me ; and ever and anon, through the mazes 
of my dream, come the words, “In the sight of 
God he is your husband !” 

They seem written in letters of fire on my brain. 
I read them on the pavement before me. Where- 
ever I turn I see them ; and at last a sort of happi- 
ness steals over me as I dwell on them. After all, 
she has not taken him from me. In God’s eyes he 
is mine. 

I know not what to do. I have no thoughts that 
shape themselves into anything definite. I feel so 
helpless, so alone. 

“ Oh, God !” I cry, in my pain, “ guide me ! guide 
me !” 

A calmness creeps over me, and there arises in 
my heart an intense longing to go home. I try to 
combat it, but it is too strong for me, and I find 
myself, without power to do otherwise, taking a 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


259 


cab. I tell the driver to drive for his life to catch 
the 5.40 train at Forty-second Street. 

As in a dream, I take my ticket and hurry on to 
the platform. I am but just in time ; the door is 
banged too, behind me, and we are off. 

I remember nothing of that journey ; only, ever 
before me are the words, “ In the sight of God he is 
your husband !” 

1 am roused by the brakeman calling out — 

“ River dale !” 

I jump off the cars hastily, half-dazed. It is quite 
dark, and Riverdale station is over a mile from our 
house. I have passed my station, Kingsbridge. I 
am dimly glad of my mistake. Here I am not 
known ; at Kingsbridge I might have been recog- 
nized. 

A drizzling rain is falling as I get out of the train ; 
I draw my cloak round me and shiver. I am con- 
scious that I have no umbrella, and the damp, deso- 
late walk appalls me. 

I push on, however, cheered by a feeling that I 
have come for some special purpose ; and as I walk 
along the dark, lonely road, the hope rises in my 
heart that I may see him. 

At last I reach our lane. I meet no one as I walk 
toward my old home. This wet night, I suppose all 
the neighbors are at their own firesides. 

I pass the Richardsons, and at last come to the 
gate — our own gate. 

A man is leaning over it. 

My heart leaps ; but no ! It is only our gardener. 
My fears are groundless; that Charles is leaning 


260 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


over the gate is a sure sign that his master is 
away. 

I draw back into the shadow of the wall and wait. 
It seems as if that man never would go. Despite 
the pelting rain, which is becoming heavier, Charles 
stands at the gate whistling in an undertone that 
irritates me so that I feel as if I cannot bear it with- 
out screaming. I wait and wait, and he keeps on 
whistling, till my agitation reaches such a point that 
I have become hysterical, when I hear wheels and 
the sound of a whistle down the road. It is the post- 
man, and Charles has apparently been waiting for 
him, for he lifts himself off the gate and steps out 
into the road to meet him. 

Now is my opportunity. Covered by the dark- 
ness, I stealthily cross the road and slip in at the 
open gate ; and thus, like a thief, I enter the grounds 
of which a few weeks ago I was the proud mistress. 

I prowl round the house, and try to peep in at 
the windows. The drawing-room is closed, the 
dining-room is just about to be, and I have to with- 
draw quickly into the shadow as Mary comes to pull 
down the blinds. I catch a glimpse of the familiar 
room ; it looks so bare and empty that my heart 
aches afresh for the misery that has fallen on us all. 

Then I make my way round the veranda to Jim’s 
study. It is lighted ! Can it be that he is here ? 

The blind is up, and summoning all my courage, I 
look in. Yes ! yes ! Oh, my Cod ! He is there ! 

I press my face to the glass, and drink in every 
line of his dear form. His head is bowed on his 
crossed arms, and I cannot see his face. Then he 


A PROUD DISHONOR . 


26 1 


raises it, and calls out “ Come in !” andJI start back 
into the shade, horror-struck at the change I see in 
him. 

His hair is nearly white. He looks twenty years 
older than when I saw him last. All the ruddy color 
has left his face, and the sunken cheeks are a dull 
gray, the weary eyes lusterless. 

Lottie enters — Lottie, with the shadow of a deep 
grief on her face. 

“ Well!” he cries, eagerly. 

The window is a little open, and I can hear, as 
well as see. 

Tears spring to Lottie’s eyes. 

Ho news,” she says, gently. “ The postman has 
passed.” 

He says nothing, but drops his head on his hands, 
wearily. 

“ Oh, Jim !” she says, “ do have courage ; we shall 
hear.” 

“ Ho, Lottie !” he answers, and his voice is so dif- 
ferent from the old, ringing tones. “ She has gone, 
and we shall never hear of her again.” 

“ Don’t think that !” she urges. 

“ Leave me, dear — I am better alone and with a 
gentle pressure of the hand she leaves him. 

Oh, if he knew how near I was to him ! Dear 
God ! would it be a sin to obey the longings of my 
heart, and, rushing in, throw myself on his breast, 
and tell him I will never leave him? Am I not 
choosing a selfish course? We have been equally 
wronged, and should I not help him to bear his bur- 
den, rather than add to it by my silence and absence ? 


262 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


He begins talking to himself. 

“No news! no news! If she were alive she 
would not keep me in this suspense. She is 
dead !” 

He paces the room for a few minutes, and his 
face works convulsively ; then it takes a strange ex- 
pression that is half-resolution, half-madness. 

He sits down at his desk, and opening a drawer, 
takes out a pistol. Ah, Heaven! what does it 
mean ! 

He turns it over in his hand. 

“Yes!” he cries, “she is dead, and this shall join 
us !” 

He raises it, then lowers it, to see if it is all in 
order. 

I cannot bear it ! I dash the window open and 
rush into the room ; but ere I am inside there is a 
flash and a loud report, and in my agony of terror, 
lest Jim has shot himself, consciousness leaves me, 
and I fall heavily to the floor. 

When I come to myself I am lying on the sofa, 
and a sea of faces seem leaning over me — Lottie, 
Gerard Richardson, Mary, and the doctor ; but the 
one face I look for is not there ! I start up, only to 
fall back helpless. 

“Where is he! Where is he!” I cry, struggling 
with the restraining hands. 

They move aside, and to my joy I see him coming 
slowly toward me. 

I try to hold out my arms to him, but one seems 
too heavy to move. It seems to take years before 
he is near me, and years before I hear his voice. 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


263 


“Winnie!” is all he murmurs. 

Then slowly, gradually, he winds his arms round 
me. I feel his lips on mine. The happiness is too 
much for me ; again all is oblivion. 

Never in after years can I forget the joy of that 
second awakening. The first thing that I open my 
eyes upon is his dear face ; my head is pillowed on 
his shoulder ; nothing between us now. 

Again I try to lift my arm, but it will not move. 
I look into his eyes, and mutely ask him why. He 
bursts into tears. 

“Winnie, my darling, my own, it was I; I shot 
you !” 

“ And not yourself ! Thank God !” 

“ I did not recognize you for the moment, and be- 
fore I had time to think had shot you. Oh, my 
darling, I thought I had killed you ! Forgive me ! 
Forgive me !” 

“ Jim !” I say, weakly, “ I have nothing to forgive, 
dear. It is you who must forgive me. I was 
wicked to leave you, for you had done me no wrong. 
I see it all now ; and, Jim, if you will take me back 
I will never leave you again.” 

“Take you back!” he cries, his eyes shining. 
“ Ohj my darling !” 

I interrupt him. 

“Jim, in the sight of God I am your wife; and 
what I am in His eyes I will be before all the world, 
if you will let me. I cannot live without you.” 

For answer he presses kiss after kiss on my lips, 
and the compact is sealed. 

Dr. Williams comes forward and insists on my be- 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


264 

ing kept quiet, so my darling lias to leave off talk- 
ing, but not before he has murmured : 

“You have given back life to me!” 

Lottie sits down beside me ; she is weeping. 
u Oh, Lottie !” I cry, “ you do not think I have 
done wrong?” 

“Hush!” she sa}^s. “I think you have done 
right ; my tears are happy ones ;” and I sink into a 
sweet, peaceful sleep, Jim’s hand in mine. Together, 
never to be parted again ! 


A PROUD DISHONOR . 


265 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

FOUR YEARS LATER. 

T HE following letter to Mrs. Atherton from her 
friend Mrs. James Macadam explains itsell: 

My Dear Mrs. Atherton: — The happiness of to- 
day has only been marred by }^our absence ; but with 
Alice so ill, I know how impossible it is for you to 
leave her. I have stolen a few minutes to write to 
you, before dressing for the big dinner party which 
Mr. Richardson has arranged on the sly in our own 
house, and to which there are more than thirty self- 
invited guests. They are giving us a perfect ova- 
tion. 

But I must tell you my story properly, merely, 
as a second preface, telling you that we found the 
house exactly as if we had only left it yesterday ; 
and as I sit at my bedroom window, with the roses 
climbing in to welcome me, it seems as if we had 
never been away at all, and the merry voices on the 
lawn make me think it is one of our old garden par- 
ties. Indeed, I could not realize it, if I did not see 
before me a scrap of paper, which I have just un- 
earthed from a corner of the desk — a bit of the fatal 
letter I wrote Jim at this desk four years ago. 

I cannot let this happy day pass without thanking 
you for your unvarying kindness to me after we left 
Mosholu, and your goodness to me in my very equiv- 
ocal position. " I brnieve, but for the persistent way 
in which you and the Richardsons visited me, and 
made much of me, I should not to-day be congratu- 


266 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


lated as a happy wife, but gazed upon as a sort of 
reclaimed outcast who had at last been dragged with- 
in the bounds of respectability. 

I felt quite like a young bride, when we set out 
from the New York home you did so much to make 
happy for us, after that bold defiance of society 
which I have never regretted. Lottie, George, and 
the Richardsons came with us to the church, and 
there, in the same church that first saw us united, 
we once again uttered our vows. 

Jim did seem so happy ; and ever since the confir- 
mation of the unhappy woman’s death came, the day 
before }^esterday, he has been the gayest of the gay ; 
and now I shall no longer see a shadow on his face. 

After the ceremony we started for Mosholu, to go 
back to the dear home we have always kept in readi- 
ness for our return. 

Short as the time was, the news had got abroad, 
and when the train arrived at Kingsbridge the plat- 
form was lined with the Broadriggs, the Dupuys, 
the Wheatley girls, and Dr. and Mrs. Williams. 
There was such a hand-shaking and welcoming! 
Everybody brought me flowers, and as I stepped into 
the carriage little Maggie Britton gave me a large 
bouquet of flowers, saying : 

“ This is from us all, dear Mrs. Macadam, to tell 
you how glad we are that you have come back.” 

Of course I began to cry, and everybody rushed at 
me to kiss me, and everybody was crying, too ; and 
then I kissed the old signal-man, thinking it was Mr. 
Dupuy ; and then we all laughed ; and at last we got 
into our carriage and drove away. They had dressed 
dear Jacob with roses, and it was my dear old pet 
who took me home. I felt so happy" that I began 
crying again. Jim told me not to be silly, but I 
noticed he was using his handkerchief very sus- 
piciously. When I told him of it, he said he had a 
cold ; you know what men are. 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


267 


When we got home, there were the Mar son chil- 
dren strewing flowers from the gate up to the door, 
and from the door into the hall. I have been walk- 
ing on flowers ever since I left Kingsbridge. I am 
so glad Jim insisted on my having a new dress for 
the occasion ; I should have felt dreadful if they had 
been making so much fuss over me and I in an old 
gown. 

Somehow, Jim always knows what is best. 

I suppose some censorious people would think I 
don’t deserve my happiness ; that I have been doing- 
wrong, and ought to spend the rest of my life in 
sackcloth and ashes. I meant to sacrifice myself to 
save Jim from despair, and worse ; and it is the kind- 
ness of such friends as you that has saved us from 
suffering for our defiance of the world and its opin- 
ions. 

You have all made a sort of heroine of me ; but 
why ? I only did what any woman in my place 
would have done; only, I was a little bolder than 
others. In the unwritten history of most loving mar- 
ried lives, there are far greater deeds done by women 
who go down to their graves unlauded and unsung. 
I have- often wondered, when you and others have 
been talking to me of the sacrifice I made, if any of 
you would have done otherwise if you had been in 
my place. I consider I have been very fortunate ; 
we can all talk of our love, but it does not often fall 
to our lot to be able to prove it. 

By the way, would you like to hear that woman’s 
story? I have never asked Jim about her, but this 
morning he told me all. 

You remember the five years that you lost sight 
of him? It all happened then. 

Jim was staying at Homburg; he had been there 
a few days, and was beginning to find it rather dull, 
when one evening, at the table-d'hote , he noticed a 
new face. It was that of a strikingly beautiful 


268 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


woman. Jim lost no time in inquiring about her, 
and soon found out that she was a very wealthy 
American lady, a widow, named Adelaide Hagger- 
stone. She was traveling with her brother, and Jim 
contrived to get acquainted with him and be intro- 
duced to her. 

The widow received Jim’s attentions with evident 
favor, and I suppose it flattered him to be the fa- 
vored swain of the handsomest woman at the baths ; 
and I have no doubt he flirted outrageously. The 
result was what might have been expected. The 
widow appeared to fall hopelessly in love, and when 
Jim announced his intention of leaving Horn burg 
she fainted and made scenes. 

Jim felt guilty and fled. 

Unfortunately his flight was not far enough. It 
was late in the afternoon, and not wishing to spend 
the night on the train, he only went as far as Frank- 
furt. He arrived about seven o’clock, and was in 
his room reading, when the door was flung violently 
open, and a veiled woman rushed in and flung her* 
self at his feet sobbing. It was Mrs. Haggerstone ! 
She avowed her love for him, and announced her in- 
tention of dying at his feet if he did not return it ; 
and all this with an audience of grinning chamber- 
maids and a guest or two. 

Jim had not time to collect his senses before the 
brother made a violent entry through the crowd, 
and declaring his sister’s reputation compromised, 
demanded satisfaction or matrimony. Jim preferred 
fighting to marriage, and on hearing his decision 
the lady became hysterical, and the brother turned 
to the crowd and denounced Jim as a libertine and 
a scoundrel, and whipping out a pistol, began to talk 
of shooting him like a dog. This brought the land- 
lord, who confiscated the pistol, turned away the 
crowd, and closed the door. Then he informed Jim 
that he had sent for the police, and unless the quar- 


A PROUD DISHONOR . 


269 


rel were arranged instantly he would have them all 
three arrested. Of course Jim. could not subject a 
lady to the horrors of a foreign prison ; and thus co- 
erced, he promised to marry Mrs. Haggerstone as 
soon as the preliminaries could be arranged. He 
returned to Homburg, and in a few days the wed- 
ding took place. 

They had been married hardly a week, when Jim 
found out the reason why they had pursued him. 
They had fancied him some English nobleman, 
traveling incognito. 

Mrs. Haggerstone had come to Europe in hopes 
of buying a title with her money ; in America she 
was too noted a character to get an entree into 
society. She was an ex-circus rider, Avho had 
eloped with a wealthy pork-packer. The guilty 
pair being overtaken by the injured wife, the two 
women had a smart encounter, in which the circus- 
rider came off victorious, and administered such a 
sound thrashing to the wife that the loving hus- 
band’s admiration knew no bounds ; he got divorced 
from his wife, married the Haggerstone woman, and 
died soon after, leaving the bulk of his fortune to her. 

The affair was of quite recent date, and American 
society was turning a cold shoulder to her, when she 
met J im. He had been abroad some months, and had 
heard nothing about it. He was occupying a suite of 
rooms at the hotel, and was living so extravagantly 
that the landlord, finding him twangless, and not 
eccentric, fancied he must be some great English 
lord, instead of an ordinary American gentleman, 
and he was always spoken to as “ Milord !” 

Mrs. Haggerstone’s brother made inquiries, when 
he found Jim’s attentions getting rather marked; 
and thanks to the lies of Jim’s valet (who, to add to 
his own importance, swore that his master was none 
other than the Duke of Marlborough), the trap was 
set. 


2?0 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


No sooner had Mrs. Haggerstone found out the 
true state of the case than she threw off all re- 
straint ; swore she had been duped ; resumed her 
old, vulgar habits ; drank, smoked, swore, and played 
cards all day long, and finally began to gamble 
feverishly. 

Jim forbade her visiting the tables, and left Hom- 
burg for Vienna. One evening he missed her, and 
after a few hours’ search found her in one of the 
most notorious private gambling-houses in the city. 
Nothing could make her give up her habits. Jim 
kept constantly moving from city to cit}^, hoping a 
change would cure her, but it did not. If they were 
in a small town where she did not know of any 
gaming-table, she would send her brother to find 
three people to make up a poker-table, and play till 
the daylight shone. 

At last she announced herself tired of the Conti- 
nent and anxious to see England, and added that it 
was about time Jim introduced her to his aristo- 
cratic relatives — for by this time she had found out 
that Jim, though not the Duke of Marlborough, or 
even an Englishman, was yet connected with some 
very fine English families, and had the entree to 
London society. 

Jim was obdurate. He told her bluntly he would 
not take her to England, and never so long as he 
lived would he introduce her as his wife. 

Three months had passed, and they were at Carls- 
ruhe. Jim had for the past six weeks been endeav- 
oring to get the woman to agree to a separation, 
when a budget of letters wms forwarded from Paris. 
Jim was out when they arrived, and Mrs. Hagger- 
stone, whose notions of honor were none of the 
finest, began to look them over. 

One particularly interested her ; it was from Eng- 
land. The postmark was four weeks old, and it bore 
the monogram “ B,” with a viscount’s coronet over it. 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


271 


With the aid of a little ingenuity and hot water 
she was soon reading it. 

It began “ My Dear Coz,” and went on to say how 
the writer was going to be married, and wanted Jim 
to come to the wedding, and added that in case this 
letter did not reach him the writer and her husband 
would be in Carlsruhe on the 3d of September, and 
Jim must try and meet them there. 

The letter was signed “ Edith Blandford.” 

Mrs. Haggerstone’s curiosity was whetted, and 
turning the letters over, she searched till she found 
one that looked like a card of invitation. It also 
bore a coronet ; and no sooner was it opened than her 
breath was taken away by reading that the Duchess 
of Netherby requested the pleasure of Mr. James 
Macadam’s company at the wedding of her daughter, 
Lady Edith Blandford, to Marmaduke, Viscount 
Bothwell. She sealed up the letter, and then it oc- 
curred to her that this was the 3d of September, the 
very date and place where Lady Edith had asked 
Jim to meet them. Here was the opportunity for 
the desired introduction to English society. 

She sent to inquire, and found the viscount had 
arrived, and was staying in that very hotel. Pres- 
ently Jim came into her room, looking flushed and 
annoyed, and told her that they had to leave the 
place at once. 

There was a scene. She accused him of running 
away because his friends had arrived; and Jim, as- 
tonished that she should know, found out that she 
had been tampering with his letters. lie was, of 
course, awfully indignant, and vowing to be done 
with her forever, left the room. 

Time passed. Jim did not return; and knowing 
him well enough by this time to feel sure he would 
never introduce her, she determined to play a bold 
game. 

She learned that the viscount would dine at the 


m 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


tdble-cThdte , and dressing herself in her best, went 
down to the big gallery that led to the dining-room 
and waited. A number of people were sitting and 
strolling about, and presently a lady and gentleman 
appeared who were undoubtedly English. 

She advanced toward them. 

“ Lady Bothwell !” she said. 

The gentleman put up his glass and looked at her, 
and hastily sending the lady back to her room, con- 
fronted Mrs. Haggerstone. It appears that the vis- 
count, hearing that Jim was in the hotel with his 
wife, went to look him up. Jim seemed far from 
pleased to see him, made evasive replies to his in- 
quiries about his wife, and roused the viscount’s sus- 
picions. When, an hour later, he got a note from 
Jim saying that important business had called him 
to Paris, and he was sorry to be obliged to go with- 
out calling on his cousin, the young man’s suspicions 
were confirmed ; and when Mrs. Haggerstone ad- 
dressed his wife, he flatly told her that he considered 
her an insolent, infamous woman, and left the 
hotel. 

Mrs. Haggerstone never forgave Jim. She fol- 
lowed him to Paris, and found he had taken up his 
quarters in bachelor apartments, where she could 
not join him. Jim refused to see her or speak to 
her, and she could not appeal to his friends, as she 
did not know them. 

What business had to be arranged was done 
through the lawyer, and this was the last Jim saw 
or heard of her till he read of her death. 

In Italy, where he went to make sure all was 
right, he saw the maid ; Mary Smith, who actually 
handed over to him ner jewel-case and a box of 
papers. Jim returned to America, as he thought, ‘a 
free man. 

He declares even now that the whole thing was 
the result of an accident; that she and her maid 


A PROUD DISHONOR. 


273 


were both ill with fever, and when her maid died 
the authorities made a mistake in the name. 

But remembering the legacy, and that Mary 
Smith, her maid, is alive to this day, I believe she 
had planned her diabolical revenge from the mo- 
ment she met me on the cars going to Chicago, and 
that she just waited until things were ripe for the 
execution of her scheme, and hoodwinked the au- 
thorities somehow. She had two English servants 
with her at the villa, we have since found out ; and 
all I can say is, I hope the one that died did die of 
the fever. 

I think her conscience must have pained her, for 
they say the quantity of morphine she took was ap- 
palling ; and no wonder that she eventually died of 
it. 

The coroner’s verdict was death from an overdose 
of opium ; and now that she is really dead, and in 
her grave, I am willing to try and forget the wrong 
she did us, and let the dead past bury its dead. 

Now good-by. Jim has just come in to see what 
is keeping me ; he says I could not have spent my 
time to better purpose, and tells me to give you both 
his love, -and say we are dying to have you here 
with us, and that dinner will be served in three 
minutes and I am not dressed. So, with warmest 
love, Believe me, 

Your happy but hurried 

Winifred Macadam. 


THE END. 





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tion, containing a compilation of facts for reference on various subjects, being 
an epitome of matters Historical, Political, Statistical, Biographical, Geograph- 
ical, and of general interest, making it a universal hand-book of ready refer- 
ence. Besides being a complete Dictionary with 700 illustrations, it contains 
Concise, Important and Correct Articles on the following subjects, viz.: Ab- 
breviations in common use. A full table of Synonyms. This table is of the 
greatest value to those who would write and speak smoothly and correctly. A 
Biographical Register, containing date of birth and death of the Famous Per- 
sonages of History, Art, Science, Literature, Religion and Politics, from the 
earliest known times to the present. This information alone is worth the price 
of the book. Also, Foreign Words and Phrases; American Geographical 
Names; Sobriquets given to American States, etc.; Tables of Weights and 
Measures; Tables of Metric System; Marks and Rules of Punctuation; 
Divisions of Time; Simple Rules for Spelling; Use of Capital Letters; Parlia- 
mentary Rules and Usages; Valuable Information for Business Men; Sizes of 
Books and Papers; Geographical Statistics; Census of Cities, etc.; Distance 
Tables; Coinage Tables; and various other information. 16mo, 608 pages, 
handsome cloth binding. Price , $1.00. 

It is the best low-priced dictionary we have ever seen. — Inter-Ocean , 
Ch icago. 

Boys’ Useful Pastimes : Pleasant and profitable amusement 
for spare hours. By Prof. Robert Griffith, A.M. This volume comprises chap- 
ters on the use and care of tools, and detailed instruction by means of which 
boys can make, with their own hands, a large number of toys, household orna- 
ments, scientific appliances, and many pretty, amusing and necessary articles 
for the play-ground, the home and out of doors. This book tells how to make 
Boats, Steam Engines, Steamers, Bob-Sleds, Ice-Boats, Wind-Mills, Aquariums, 
Hand-Carts, Tops, Flags, Photograph Camera, Telephone, Telegraph, Micro- 
scope, Kaleidoscope, Steam Acrobats, Traps, Dog Houses, Bird Cages, Coops, 
Dove Cotes, Squirrel Cages, Summer Houses, Fences, Fountains, Furniture, 
Gymnasium, Step Ladders, Trunks, Nets, Wire Work, Clay Modeling, Brass 
Work, Picture Frames, Electric Batteries, Electroplating, Electrotyping, Run- 
ning Mice, Wig-Wags, etc., etc. Described with over 300 illustrations . 
Square 16mo, handsome cloth binding. Price, $1.00. 

The large body of useful information in this book makes it valuable to all 
boys. — Brooklyn Eagle. 


USEFUL AND PRACTICAL BOOKS. 


The National Standard Encyclopedia : A Dictionary of 
Literature, the Arts and the Sciences, for popular use; containing over 
20,000 articles pertaining to questions of Agriculture, Anatomy, Archi- 
tecture, Biography, Botany, Chemistry, Engineering, Geography, Geology, 
History, Horticulture, Literature, Mechanics, Medicine, Physiology, Natural 
History, Mythology, and the various Arts and Sciences. A book of reference 
for the various departments of human knowledge. Complete in one volume of 
700 pages, with over 1,000 illustrations. Square 16mo, handsome cloth 
binding. Price, $1.00. 

What Every One Should Know : A cyclopedia of Practical 
Information, containing complete directions for making and doing over 5,000 
things necessary in Business, the Trades, the Shop, the" Home, the Farm and 
the Kitchen, giving in plain language Recipes, Prescriptions, Medicines, Manu- 
facturing Processes, Trade Secrets, Chemical Preparations, Mechanical Appli- 
ances, Aid to Injured, Business Information, Law, Home Decorations, Art 
Work, Fancy Work, Agriculture, Fruit Culture, Stock Raising, and hundreds 
of other useful hints and helps. This book tells how to make and do every- 
thing needed in our daily wants. A very useful book for every-day reference. 
Square 16mo, 512 pages, handsome cloth binding. Price, $1.00. 

Dr. Danelson’s Counselor, with Recipes : A trusty guide 

for the family. An illustrated book of 720 pages, treating Physiology, Hygiene, 
Marriage, Medical Practice, etc. Describing all known diseases and ailments, 
and giving plain prescriptions for their cure, with proper directions for home 
treatment. It describes the best Washes, Liniments, Salves, Plasters, Infu- 
sions, Pills, Injections, Sprays, Syrups, Tonics, etc. These are valuable to the 
physician and nurse, making it a manual for reference. Eighteen pages upon 
Marriage treat the subject historically, philosophically and physiologically. 
Sixty-seven pages upon Hygiene, or the Preservation of Health; a chapter of 
inestimable value. Eighty pages are devoted to Physiology, giving an accu- 
rate and extensive description of the wonderful and mysterious working of the 
machinery within ourselves. Five hundred pages which follow present Medi- 
cal Treatment, with Sensible and Scientific Methods of Cure. 12mo, 720 pages, 
handsome cloth binding. Price, $1.50. 

The Counselor is pure and elevating in its morals, and wise and practical in 
the application of its counsels. It can but be a helper in homes following its 
directions. — Rev. J. V. Ferguson , Pastor M. E. Church , Mohawk , N. Y. 

The National Standard History of the United States. 

By Everit Brown, M. A. In this most interesting book, our country’s history 
is told from the discovery of America down to the election of Grover Cleveland 
as President of the United States. This book contains sixty-seven chapters — 
about 600 pages— giving full and authentic accounts of the Norsemen, the Dis- 
coveries and Explorations of Columbus and the Cabots, Spanish, French, En- 
glish and Dutch Explorations, the Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers, the Indians 
and their Wars, the Colonies, their Settlement and Growth, the States and their 
Settlement, the French and Indian Wars, the Revolution and its Battles, the 
Administration of each President from Washington to Grover Cleveland, the 
Civil War, the Record of its Battles and the Gallant Officers of the Army and 
Navy, the Emancipation of.4,000,000 Slaves, Reconstruction and Peace. Bound 
in handsome cloth binding, with 60 illustrations. Price, $1.00. 

In preparing this history of our past, no pains has been spared to gather the 
best material from every source. The most reliable authorities have been 
consulted, and the ripest fruits of historical research have been earefully 
gathered. 


XJiSEFXJL, AJVJD PRACTICAL BOOKS 


A Handy Classical and Mythological Dictionary for popu- 
lar use, with 70 illustrations. By H. C. Faulkner. It is the design of this vol- 
ume to provide the ordinary reader with a brief and concise explanation of the 
ancient Mythological, Classical, Biographical, Historical, and Geographical 
Allusions most frequently met with in English Literature, in art representations 
of Classical Deities and Heroes, in newspaper discussions, and in ordinary 
speech. A hand-book for popular use — convenient, comprehensive, clear, con- 
cise, correct — and written in popular language. Very useful to every one who 
wishes to understand these subjects. 18mo, handsome cloth binding. Price, 
SO cents. 

It has in the most condensed form the various important facts connected 
with the various myths, personages and places of ancient mythology. — Com- 
mercial Gazette , Cincinnati. 


Tlie Jennie June Series of Manuals for Ladies. 

Needle-Work : A manual of stitches and studies in embroidery 
and drawn work. Edited by Jenny June. This manual is an attempt to sys- 
tematize and arrange in an order convenient for workers, the modern methods 
in Embroidery and Drawn Work. The author has felt the desire and the re- 
sponsibility involved in aiding women to a true and practical guide to the 
beautiful art of needle-work. When the Angel of Mercy begged that woman 
might not be created, because she would be abused by man, as the stronger, 
the Lord listened but felt that he could not give up the whole scheme of crea- 
tion, so he gave the loving Angel permission to bestow upon her any compen- 
sating gift she chose, and the Angel pityingly endowed her with tears and the 
love of needle-work. The list of stitches, with studies and illustrations, are 
Buttonhole, Hemstitch, Brier Stitch, Crow’s Foot, Herring Bone, Foddet 
Stitch, Two Tie, Three Tie, Drawn-Work, Stem Stitch, Twisted Chain or 
Rope Stitch, Split Stitch, French Knot, Solid Leaf, Satin Stitch, Padding, 
Darning Stitch, Skeleton, Outline, Couching, Kensington, Filling Stitches, 
Coral Stitch, Italian, Leviathian and Holbein Stitches, Applique, Interlaced 
Ground, Weaving Stitch, Gold and Silver Thread Embroidery, Arrasene Rib- 
bon Work, with studies and designs in needle-work for My 'Lady s Chamber, 
My Lady’s Robe, The Dining-Room, Parlor, and Library, and for Linen and 
Cotton Fabrics. With over 200 illustrations of stitches and designs. Large 
octavo, paper covers. Price, SO cents. 

Knitting and Crochet : A guide to the use of the needle and 
the hook. Edited by Jenny June. In arranging this work the editor has taken 
special pains to systematize and classify its different departments, give the 
greatest possible variety of designs and stitches, and explain the technical de- 
tails so clearly that any one can easily follow the directions. There are a large 
variety of stitches and a great number of patterns fully illustrated and de- 
scribed, which have all been tested by an expert before insertion in this collec- 
tion. The aim of the editor has been to supply women with an accurate 
and satisfactory guide to knitting and crochet work. All known stitches are 
given, with designs, and directions are given to knit and crochet Afghans, 
Boots, Borders, Cane Work, Yokes and Sleeves, Clouds, Comforters, Counter- 
panes, Stockings, Drawers, Edging, Gaiters, Jackets, Knee Caps, Mittens, 
Petticoats, Purses, Quilts, Rugs, Shawls, Shirts, Socks, Undervests, Venetian 
Lace, and many others. All stitches and designs in Macrame work are given. 
This volume contains over 200 illustrations of stitches and patterns for knitting 
and crochet work. Large octavo, paper covers. Price , SO cents. 


AN1) PRACTICAL BOOKS. 


Ladies’ Fancy Work : An illustrated guide to all kinds of 
needle-work. Embracing Embroidery, Lace Work, Knitting, Tatting, Cro- 
chet Work, Net Work, etc., etc. This valuable book is beautifully printed on 
fine tinted paper, and contains over 700 illustrations, comprising designs for 
Monograms, Initials, Edgings, Cross Stitch, Point Russe, Berlin and Shetland 
Wool, Applique, Kate Greenaway designs for Doilies, etc., Handkerchief Bor- 
ders, Macrame, Holbein Work, Java Canvas, Fringes, Turkish Rugs, Toilet 
Cushions, Foot Stools, Work Baskets, Lambrequins, Work Bags, Scrap Bas- 
kets, Table-top Patterns, Folding Screens, Sofa Cushions, Slipper Patterns, 
Wall Pockets, Towel Racks, Tidies, Catchalls, Chair Bolsters, School Bags, 
Patchwork, Tricot and Burlaps, Wood Baskets, Bibs, Shoe Bags, Jewel Boxes, 
Knitted Jackets, Pillow Shams, and hundreds of other designs in fancy work. 
Plain directions with each design. Jenny J[une in her preface to this book says: 
“ The present volume aims to supply within its compass a greater variety of 
excellent designs — every one of which is useful for dress or household decora- 
tion — than have ever before been gathered within the leaves of one manual.” 
Every lady will find this book a useful companion and invaluable to all who 
love fancy work. Large quarto, paper covers. Price, 50 cents. 

Letters and Monograms, for Marking on Silk, Linen, and 
other Fabrics; for Individual and Household Use. Edited by Jenny June. 
One of the aims of this new book has been not only to give as great a variety 
of Initial Letters, Alphabets, and Monograms as possible, but to teach how and 
where the different sizes, forms, and models of letters can be most suitably ap- 
plied, and with what materials they can be most suitably reproduced. There 
is a great value in the knowledge and application of a system of graded and 
artistic marking, by initial letter or monogram, of articles for personal or fam- 
ily use. This book is printed on fine paper, with handsome cover, and contains 
over 1,000 illustrations. Comprising Alphabets, Monograms, and Initial Let- 
ters for marking Baby Blankets, Banners, Bed Linen, Bed Quilts, Book Covers, 
Book-marks, Bureau Scarfs, Card-board Embroidery, Children’s Handker- 
chiefs, Doilies, Duster Cases, Ecclesiastical Embroidery, Gentlemen’s Hand- 
kerchiefs, Gentlemen’s Underclothing, House Linen, Ladies’ Handkerchiefs. 
Ladies’ Underclothing, Laundry Bags, Pillow Shams, Portfolios, School-Girls 
Underclothing, Sermon Cases, Sofa Cushions, Splashers, Table Linen, Tea 
Cloths, Tidies, Tobacco Pouches, Towels, Umbrella Cases, Work Aprons, 
Work Bags, etc., etc. 

Ladies will find this the only book of Initials, Monograms, and Alphabets 
published in this country. Price, 50 cents. 


Books of Music.— Full Sheet Music Size. 

Burt’s Selected Gems of Song. — A choice collection of sixty- 
two favorite songs from the works of the best composers, with accompaniments 
for piano and organ. The titles are : All on Account of Eliza, Bailiff’s Daugh- 
ter, Banbury Cross, Boogie Man, The Bridge, Chorus of Charity Girls, Come 
Back to Erin, Danube River, Douglas, Tender and True, Down by the Old 
Mill Stream, Dream Song, Every Inch a Sailor, The Fairy Jane, Five O’clock 
in the Morning, Flee as a Bird, Good-by, Sweetheart, Good-by, Home, Sweet 
Home, I’m Called Little Buttercup, In the Gloaming, It Was a Dream, Tohnny 
Morgan, Katy’s Letter, Kerry Dance, Killarnev, Lardy Dah, Let Me Dream 
Again, Letter in the Candle (Quartet Chorus), The Lost Chord, Lover and the 
Bird, Lullaby (Fritz), Maggie’s Secret, Man in the Moon, My Love Beyond the 
Sea, Nancy Lee, Naughty Clara, No Place Like Home, Oh, Fair Dove, Oh 
Fond Dove, Oh, Fred, Tell Them to Stop, Old Timbertoes, Over the Garden 
Wall, Robin Adair, Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep, Smiles May End in 
Tears, Some Day, Speak to Me, Speed Well, Still Love's Dream I Cherish 
Take Back the Heart, Tar’s Farewell, Thirteen, Fifteen, Fourteen, Torpedo 
and the Whale, True Blue, Turnham Toll, Twickenham Ferry, Two’s Com- 
pany, Three’s None, A Warrior Bold, etc., etc. Price, GO cents. 












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THE CELEBRATED 

SOHMER 


GRAND, SQUARE AND UPRIGHT PIANOS, 


FIRST PRIZE 
DIPLOMA. 

Centennial Exhibition. 
1876, Montreal, 1881 ana 
1882. 


The enviable po fl 
sition Sohmei* & ™ 


sition 
Co. hold among 
American Piano 
Manufacturers is 
solely due to the 
merits of their in- 
struments. 



They are used 
in Conservatories, 
Schools and Sem- 
inaries, on account 
of their superior 
tone and unequaled 
durability. 

The SOHMER 
Piano is a special 
favorite with the 
leading musicians 
and critics. 


ARE AT PRESENT THE MOST POPULAR 
AND PREFERRED BY THE LEADING ARTISTS. 

SOHMER Sc CO., Manufacturers, Nos. 149 to 1S5E. 14 tie St., N. If. 

“ THE HIGHEST AUTHORITIES UNANIMOUSLY INDORSE 
BRAINERD & ARMSTRONG’S UNFADING ASIATIC DYES.” 




ware Hawks!” 


Sensational advertising is always strictly avoided in offering BRAINERD & ARM- 
STRONG’S FAST-DYED EMBROIDERING SILKS, but the fact that there are in tha 
market many WORTHLESS IMITATIONS THAT WILL NOT WASH, of 

BRAINERD & ARMSTRONG’S 


ROPE, 1^ KNITTING, 

FILO, VTT TZO CR0CHET, NG,| 

OUTLINING, Li I I K NUNDFRWEAR, 

TWISTED, NATURELLE, 

necessitates a word of Caution to j^t Embroiderers: Sax that every Skein, Hank , Ball, 
or Spool bears our Name. No other is genuine. 


ISlLKS 


THE BRAINERD & ARMSTRONG CO., 

Leading Manufacturers in the world of materials for high-class Needlework and Decorative 

Embroidering. 

NEW YORK, PHILADELPHIA, BOSTON AND BALTIMORE. 

Mills: NEW LONDON, CONN. 












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